























NO-’ ^0-' 

C" 0^*0 






-n^. >? o-ooX -Pa V* = 

^ 4 ^ 

> K' '- 

V 


A^ c ° 


> .n> 

^ r ^ - 





lA 


^ ^ ‘5 

S , G^ < ^ 0 A ^ ''j 

% 'f' .-is ^ ^ 


,0.N C ^ .V. 


o o' 






<t ^ .i. 'X® ^ ’"r. 

;^V/k^ <■. _..v 

A 1 2 A^^^ 




\ I ft 



* %/“ ' ' ^'J.'*'' . 0 ~ ‘ , %!' ” ‘ '' ' ' « %, 

G A ^/y?^ 'P 



3 vO o, * 



•"b o'" . 




aV^^‘ " 

‘V ^.A. «> 





O ■ r> oK 

'*' *) N 0 ’ a0‘ O ^ 8 1 a * \A^ 

o> ^ * o ^ ^ « ' ^ . y . s 

.:^ 

<“'■■* ^'o ‘ ' ” ' y •f^'^ , I ' 

■^^W' ^ ''' 

<* o 0 *> 

* -0 '*’ 

.v' 

^ ^ \^ S ^ IH '' ^ 

A' ''wtJ'^ •> ,9^ »•>•»/■ -c. 

sV * -A. A'^ .ft 'i#’ '!.*'• 'f 




A \ ' 0 ^ c . ^ ^ |> <r S ^ 

y '‘ju. - o. .-O' x- 



‘V G'" ^ ^ 

C. > ... ^ X X ~ 

AiW. 


.0 o 

‘ ^ A . « .v^' ' v^: ' . . ft.V* g;» ^>0^ ^ , 


aV c 





V 

aX^‘ 



0 ^ k 


,-0' v’ 




0 ^ 




,0 o. 


J '<V <>^ 

A o ^ / 

,/.:^%% ‘"'00^' 

^ cSCvVWn'^ '' . 

r Y ^ 

« o o' 

* *^7/^ ,'■ '^- 

' r% * ° ~ ° ’*o’^‘'\ > • « * ' ' ' ' \'^\^'j^y> 




1 I fi ^ 0 ^ X 

V * 8 ^ ^ 

•y ^ 

^0 



x ^ 0 





«r . ^ 0 * J. '*^ A ^ y * . s 

a\ O N C >. ^ ^ 

« c-t^ ^ ^ 

\ V .sroAX >s^ 'Z 


0 X 


C ^ ^ 


^ V 

A -V 

o- * I g ✓- 

(X V <* V t B ^ ^ 

\ V 



< 0 




^ : A. 

^ CV 

?^.V ,v, 

, » A 

J? ^- 

.7s' A ...,<•<, .o~ = /V'-’'' a 


Is 


2! O' 







'^r 


-A' '“Cp. ■> 

^ A^ 0 N C . ^ ^ 

vSS c ^ O. 




si 


"T- V 


" ' * ''As s ” ' A> * A'’*’ .'*» 

-V ^ ® ^/Mak *» 

, s\A^ ^ sA O. ^ 





" A 

r\ V 


V" 



0" 


'^oo'^ 


A Af-. 







- V = ^7 




>- ^ 



O 


■'bo'' 


• 0 , C‘ 


* • "° .\^ .s 


<» 




if, 



= H.,A 

2 : 


r •%. “.yi 



^ c ■ n ^ J? I \ 

"'“o’" »'•». -A 


Vi. 

* <X^‘ V 

* <xXX A-i. 



A A “ 


-fc V' '^* 

N -V 




0 K 




C,'^ V '■ ^ 

X V^' 

> o' » I' 

o ^ 

^ ,,^' ^qO 
<■ > A> ^ N 0 ^ V * 0 ^ 



■A ■ 

//— 0° ^ 

■'bo'' 



O <1 .V 




,A' ’^ 


" A’ Af* 

\ g 

V^ v\ — ^ 





■0 S 


Cs*^” ^ 


v^ 



= An A 





A i^ 








1 


ON THE RUN 


I 4 




» 

» 









FATHER FINN’8 FAMOUS STORIES 
Each volume with a Frontispiece, net $1.00. Postage 10c. 
Bobby m Moyikland 
Facing Danger 

His Luckiest Year. A Sequel to “Lucky Bob” 
Lucky Bob 

Percy Wynn; or, Making a Boy of Him 
Tom Playfair; or, Making a Start 
Harry Dee; or, Working It Out 

Claude Lightfoot; or. How the Problem Was 
Solved 

Ethelred Preston; or. The Adventures of a 
Newcomer 

That Football Game; and What Came of It 

That Office Boy 

Cupid of Campion 

The Fairy of the Snows 

The Best Foot Forward; and Other Stories 

Mostly Boys. Short Stories 

His First and Last Appearance. 

But Thy Love and Thy Grace, 


ON THE RUN 


BY 

FRANCIS J. FINN, S.J. 

1 1 

Autht>r of “Percy Wynn,” “Tom Playfair,” 


“Harry Dee,” etc. 




New York, Cincinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

Publishers of Benziger's Magazine 

1922 



Copyright, 1922 , by Benziger Brothers 




19 "22 


©CU692154 


CONTENTS 


Chapter I 

Joe Eanly, American, arrives in Dublin 
and begins to revise the opinions of a 
lifetime 7 

Chapter II 

Joe Eanly gets an idea of what it is to be 
on the run and explains under cross- 
examination why he has left America. . . 24 

Chapter III 

Joe learns something of interest concern- 
ing his uncle 38 

Chapter IV 

The Curfew and how it affected Joe 54 

Chapter V 

An Irish evening in an Irish home 69 

Chapter VI 

A walk in Dublin that changes into a run. . 78 

Chapter VII 

The Stormy Petrel is a busy woman. Joe 
finds that Dublin streets in the evening 

are not as peaceful as they look 98 

5 


6 


CONTENTS 


Chapter VIII 

Introducing an awkward girl and also the 
heroine of this narrative 117 

Chapter IX 

Joe Eanly meets Eileen Desmond and is 
pleased to record his impressions 130 

Chapter X 

The King of the Claddagh 140 

Chapter XI 

Joe Eanly meets an old acquaintance in the 
hills of Connemara 158 

Chapter XII 

Joe finds himself in very had company. . . 177 

Chapter XIII 

Joe finds himself in the very best company 188 
Chapter XIV 

In the midst of danger...... 204 

Chapter XV 

The dawn of a new era 215 


ON THE RUN 


CHAPTER I. 

JOB BANLY, AMERICAN, ARRIVES IN DUBLIN AND 
BEGINS TO REVISE THE OPINIONS OP A LIFE- 
TIME. 

WANT to go to the Jesuit residence on 
A Upper Gardiner Street/^ said Father 
Dalton to the driver of a jaunting car. 

“Step right up, your Reverence,’’ returned 
the jarvey, raising his hat, and relieving the 
priest of his valise and suitcase. 

“Oh, say! I beg your pardon,” broke in a 
boy apparently little more than fifteen years 
of age, “but would you mind my going along 
with you? I’ve got a letter of introduction to 
Father McSorley of that house.” 

The clergyman turned and fixed his eyes 
upon the lad, who with no appearance of effort 
was holding in one hand a bit of luggage of 
such a size that it would be difficult to say 
whether it was a small trunk or a gigantic suit- 
case, and in the other a traveling bag of enor- 
mous proportions. In fact, not content with 


7 


8 


ON THE RUN 


holding these articles of luggage, the youth 
was lifting them up and down as though they 
were dumb-bells. 

He was good to look upon. He was short, 
stocky, and as with no apparent effort he raised 
and lowered the luggage, the priest could 
clearly see the play of rippling muscle. 
Although short and stocky, he was in no wise 
stout. He was of bone and muscle all compact. 
His face, unusually fair, was drawn, which in 
addition to a slight tinge of pink in his cheeks 
might have led a superficial observer to suspect 
that he was a consumptive. Father Dalton was 
not a superficial observer; he had long since 
learned the difference between a young man 
in the pink of training and a young man in the 
first stages of tuberculosis. 

‘‘What team do you play on. Young Amer- 
ica?’’ asked the priest, smiling and holding out 
the hand of welcome. 

‘ ‘ Quarterback, St. Xavier College, Cincinnati, 
Ohio, U. S. A.,” answered the youth, dropping 
his luggage and shaking the priest’s extended 
hand with a grip that was viselike. 

“You don’t mean to tell me that you are Joe 
Eanly?” cried Father Dalton, cleverly mask- 
ing his wincing features under a cover of genu- 
ine astonishment. 

“Why, how did you come to know my 
name?” exclaimed the still more astonished 
youth. 


JOE ARRIVES IN DUBLIN 


9 


quite simple,’’ returned Father Dalton. 
‘‘Everybody in Cincinnati knows the name of 
St. Xavier’s great quarterback. My name is 
Father Dalton.” 

“Of St. Xavier’s Church, Cincinnati? Why, 
I’ve heard of you. Lots of the boys knew you. 
Shake again.” 

This time Father Dalton gave the enthus- 
iastic lad one finger. 

“Come on,” he said; “suppose we get 
aboard.” 

The jarvey meantime had stowed away the 
luggage of the two Americans. 

Young Eanly in response to this suggestion 
leaped up into his seat with the gracefulness 
of a bird; but Father Dalton, a sexagenarian, 
did not follow his example. He looked puzzled. 
How was he to get up? The jarvey came to 
his rescue at once, pointing out a step and 
giving his Eeverence an arm. Also, he was 
^encumbered by the help of young Joe, who 
caught him by the other arm and gave him such 
a generous pull that the priest was within a 
little of vaulting over the luggage piled on top. 

“You’re too healthy!” observed Father Dal- 
ton, as the jarvey touched his whip to the medi- 
tative horse. “And to think that in Dublin, 
of all places in the world, I should meet the 
captain of the St. Xavier College football 
squad!” 


10 


ON THE RUN 


‘‘Did you know I was captain, Father!^’ 
asked the delighted youth. 

“I did. We all know it at St. Xavier 
Church. But none of us knew you were going 
over to train in Ireland.’’ 

As the jaunting car emerged from the station, 
a group of ten or twelve men lifted their hats 
as one. 

“Say! Did you get that?” exclaimed Joe. 
“Did you see that bunch uncover? What’s the 
matter with them ? ’ ’ 

“You’re in a Catholic country, my boy.” 

“Oh!” said Joe. “I never thought of that. 
In fact I didn’t take oft my hat to you, did I?” 

“You did not,” returned Father Dalton. 
“We priests do not expect that religious cour- 
tesy of most true-born Americans, even 
though they happen to be Americans who are 
Catholics and German.” 

‘ ‘ German ! ’ ’ echoed Eanly. ‘ ‘ Where did you 
get that stuff? My father was half-German, 
and my mother was half-Irish. I’m an Amer- 
ican and proud of it. Say, look ! Do you know 
all these children?” 

The jarvey had turned into what was clearly 
a residential street. The sidewalk on either 
side was crowded with children, barelegged all 
of them, barefooted many of them; and every 
child whose eyes happened to fall on Father 
Dalton brightened and smiled a “Cead mille 
fail the.” The boys with hats or caps lifted 


JOE ARRmES IN DUBLIN 


11 


them, the bareheaded ones ‘ ‘ raised their hair, ’ ^ 
little girls curtsied gracefully, a few of them 
genuflecting. One little boy of a venturesome 
disposition was sprawled on the sidewalk. On 
perceiving the priest he scrambled hastily to 
his feet. But the sidecar had passed, and it 
was too late for him to catch the eye of the 
reverend Father. Into the streets and after the 
car, bareheaded, barelegged, barefooted, he 
dashed. Presently he caught up, and looked 
straight into Father Dalton ^s smiling eyes. 

‘‘God bless you. Father!’’ he said, pulling 
his hair. And then the freckle-faced, tousled- 
haired vision was gone. 

“Upon my word!” gasped the priest, still 
busy bowing and smiling and raising his hat 
to the lovely little tatterdemalions of Dublin. 

“What sights we do see when we haven’t 
got our gun,” apostrophized young America. 
As though the word gun were the signal, there 
suddenly swept around from a by-street a lorry 
— a lorry in which were crowded together a 
number of Black-and-Tans screened in with a 
wire cage and armed with guns. As the lorry 
swept along, the owners of these guns were 
thoughtfully pointing them at the innocent, 
lovely little children on either side of the street. 
The gunmen were a rough, dissipated-looking 
body of men. Some of them were scarred ; but 
it is very doubtful if a single scar had been 
won in honorable battle. These scars, the Irish 


12 


ON THE RUN 


people believed, were not the red badges of 
courage. In no conceivable beauty show could 
any of these wretched men have obtained even 
so much as honorable mention. They were the 
flotsam and jetsam of the English army, men 
of wasted and inglorious lives. They were 
sophisticated barbarians — barbarians without 
the refinement of their forbears who had burnt 
libraries and torn down cathedrals. They were 
the accredited representatives of a country 
whose inhabitants passed them by with blush- 
ing and averted faces. 

One of them, a heavy-set fellow with a livid 
gash stretching from his left eyebrow across 
his forehead — a gash inflicted, by the way, by 
a pothouse mug in the hands of his irate wife — 
leveled his gun at Joe Eanly. It was his idea 
of humor. The indignant young American 
countered by raising his thumb to his nose and 
wriggling energetically the fingers of that par- 
ticular hand. 

There was a loud oath from the lorry, and 
an ominous click. 

^‘You fool!’’ cried Father Dalton, catching 
the wriggling fingers in a strong grasp and 
wresting them away from the somewhat tip- 
tilted nose. ‘‘Don’t you want to see a little 
more of Ireland than this? That fellow might 
have shot you.” 

“I wish I had a brick,” stuttered Joe. “The 


JOE ARRIVES IN DUBLIN 


13 


gall of that fellow! I didn’t know the Irish 
were like that.” 

‘ ‘ Irish ! ’ ’ cried the j arvey . ‘ ‘ Oh, holy Mother 
of God!” — here he crossed himself — “Did you 
ever hear the likes of that?” 

“Irish!” repeated the indignant priest. 
“You may know football, but you don’t know 
anything else. These fellows are the offscour- 
ing of England. They are picked for their vile- 
ness. They are sent here because the rank and 
file of the English soldiers would disdain to do 
such dirty work. Those fellows are Black-and- 
Tans.” 

“Are those the fellows that the Irish treat 
so roughly and cruelly?” continued Joe. 

“If it weren’t for his Eeverence,” said the 
j arvey, bringing his horse to a halt, “I’d be 
asking you to get off.” 

“Beg your pardon,” said the bewildered 
youth. “I see I’m barking up the wrong tree; 
but in Cincinnati most of the fellows I’ve been 
running with are strong for England; and 
there’s an evening paper there which comes to 
our house. It gave me the idea that the Irish 
Sinn Feiners are the bloodthirstiest, riproaring- 
est lot of cutthroats in the world. I thought 
those fellows in that lorry were Sinn Feiners” 

“Sure, it’s a furriner ye are entirely,” said 
the jarvey, with compassion in his voice. 

“You infernal greenhorn!” ejaculated the 
priest. “You must have been born yesterday ! ’ ’ 


14 


ON THE RUN 


‘'Well, all IVe got to say,^' proceeded the 
discomfited Joe, “is that if those birds are 
Black-and-Tans I’m against them from this 
day forever and ever, amen.” 

“May the Lord be with you,” said the jarvey, 
once more setting his horse in motion. 

“That’s all very well,” added the priest. 
“I’m very much against them myself. All the 
same, whenever you happen to travel with me, 
you’ll be good enough to conceal your noble 
rage. If it had not been for the Black-and-Tan 
next the fellow you were wiggling your fingers 
at, you might have been shot dead. Those fel- 
lows have little or no regard for human life.” 

“Do you mean to tell me,” stuttered Joe, 
with protruding eyes, “that that bird would 
have fired at me?” 

“I’ve heard tell,” put in the jarvey, “of a 
mere boy who was shot dead because he went 
up to a Black-and-Tan and said ‘God save 
Ireland.’ ” 

“Holy smoke I” ejaculated the crestfallen 
young American. 

“You did be saying that there was Irish 
blood in you,” said the jarvey suspiciously. 

“I did; and I didn’t mean anything when I 
said it. But now, by George, I feel it stirring 
all through me ! I wish every drop of blood in 
my body was Irish. I feel as if it was.” 

“You’ll be a Sinn Feiner in a week’s time,” 


JOE ARRIVES IN DUBLIN 


15 


observed Father Dalton. ‘‘They are good and 
noble men, not cutthroats and murderers.^’ 

“This is Dublin’s greatest street,” said the 
jarvey, as they turned from the residential 
street into a wide thoroughfare. “It does me 
good to look on the face of these young fellows 
you see that do be walking along.” 

Although it was after six o’clock in the after- 
noon, the sidewalks were thronged. There was 
a certain air upon the faces of the men which 
at once caught Father Dalton’s attention and 
which in a vague way impressed Joe Eanly. 
The faces were the faces of idealists, the faces 
of men who dreamed beautiful dreams. There 
was also the expression of determination, the 
determination of men who believed in their 
dreams and were willing to shed their blood to 
the last drop for the realization of their ideals. 
In a word, their faces were the faces of men 
who were at once poets and soldiers. 

“Upon my word,” ejaculated Father Dalton, 
this is a new, a renascent Ireland!” 

“You never said a truer word in your life,” 
said the jarvey. “The old days and the old 
times are gone. These young fellows have 
more sense than we ever had. I’m old, too old 
to learn; but these boys know that talking is 
not going to win. They don’t drink and they 
don’t talk. But they do be doing things. The 
only thing we old fellows have given them is 


16 


ON THE RUN 


tlie old faith; and, begorry ! they Ve got it better 
and stronger than we had it.’^ 

‘‘I notice that many of these men wear 
medals of the Sacred Heart.’’ 

‘‘Sure they do, and proudly. And most of 
them that do be wearing them are men of the 
I. E. A.” 

‘‘The what?” asked Joe. 

“The Irish Eepnblic Army, God bless it!” 
explained the driver. 

“What’s that?” continued the youth, point- 
ing to a vast ruin in a northerly direction. 

“That is the Custom House,” answered the 
driver. “Whenever we would hurt the feelings 
of the Black-and-Tans, they would burn down 
a building or two. We burned that building 
beyond, being that they hurt our feelings. That 
one building was worth more than all the 
buildings they burnt and pillaged put to- 
gether. ’ ’ 

“What is your name, if you please,” asked 
Joe, looking with favor on the old Irishman. 

“Patrick McGreevy, sir.” 

“You were the oldest boy,” put in the priest. 

“I was, sir. How did you know?” 

“Let me answer your question by putting 
another. Do you know why it is that every 
boy born in Ireland is not christened Patrick?” 

“I do not, your Eeverence.” 

“The reason,” answered the priest solemnly, 
“is that many l3oys have brothers, and it would 


JOE ARRIVES IN DUBLIN 


17 


be confusing if all the boys in the family had 
the same name. The second boy is always 
Michael. When there are more, the parents 
are free to follow their own inventions.” 

The jarvey, who had reined up on 0 ^Connell 
Bridge to give his passengers an opportunity 
to gaze upon the river Liffey, broke into a roar. 

Faith!” he chuckled, ‘‘there’s more of truth 
than jest in your Eeverence’s words. Me own 
brother next to me is Michael.” 

“O’Connell Bridge,” observed Father Dal- 
ton, throwing out his hand in a wide gesture, 
“is in the heart of Dublin. Behind us is the 
University of Dublin and the Bank. The beau- 
tiful river stretches on either side of us, and 
we have a fine view of O’Connell Street itself, 
with the Pillar and the Nelson Monument. 
Besides, everybody seems to pass over the 
bridge. ’ ’ 

Joe Eanly gazed about him bright-eyed, alert, 
puzzled. 

“Say,” he commented presently, “this 
doesn’t strike me as being Ireland at all. Look 
at all the soldiers. I’ve seen more soldiers 
since I got here than I saw in America all dur- 
ing the war.” 

“They do be sending them over here by the 
boatful,” explained Patrick, “for the last few 
weeks ; and they tell me they are getting ready 
to wipe us out entirely. The people don’t mind 
the regular soldiers so much. It’s the Black- 


18 


ON TEE RUN 


and-Tans and the Auxiliaries that they hate.’’ 

‘‘And what makes you think that this is not 
Ireland!” asked Father Dalton. 

“Why, I thought all the men would be in 
corduroy knee-breeches and carrying shilla- 
lahs.” 

“Indeed!” commented the priest. “And no 
doubt you expected the young women to be 
dressed elaborately, like Irish collens on the 
stage.” 

“And everybody seems to be so sober,” con- 
tinued Joe. 

“And nobody is dancing an Irish reel,” 
added Father Dalton sarcastically. “Also the 
young men are not enjoying themselves by 
smashing each other’s heads. Your ideas of 
Ireland are gleaned from Lever and Lover and 
a few musical comedies.” 

‘ ‘ I guess a lot of us Americans have a wrong 
idea of this country. In some ways they have 
more sense than we. Look at their buildings — 
all solid; no frame houses, no skyscrapers. 
I’ll bet they never have fires here.” 

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” said Patrick, 
“but they do. It takes a lot of trouble to get 
a house to burn. But if we use a little oil and 
kindling we can do it.” 

“There now!” cried Joe impetuously; 
“there’s the sort of thing I’d expect to see in 
Ireland. See that tiny girl with the basket of 
flowers. ’ ’ 


JOE ARRIVES IN DUBLIN 


19 


Directly in front of them, leaning against the 
bridge rail was a little girl of about seven whose 
face was noticeably dirty. Her feet were 
grimy, and her little dress, old and tattered, 
had one rent in it which gave any one who 
wished to investigate an opportunity of count- 
ing her ribs on the left side. She was every- 
thing that could be expressed by the word ‘ ‘ tat- 
terdemalion.’’ 

‘‘Poor little child!” exclaimed the priest. 
“Who knows but her father is on the run? 
Here, little girl,” he cried, raising his voice, 
“let me have a flower.” 

The child raised her eyes — beautiful blue 
eyes, limpid pools of loveliness, and smiled upon 
the priest. She bowed, she ducked, she curtsied. 

“This is the nicest bit I have, your Eever- 
ence,” she said, handing him a bunch of 
heather. 

The priest gave her a shilling; young Eanly 
added another. 

“God bless you. Father! And God bless you 
too, sir! It’s a fine supper I’ll be having to- 
night. ’ ’ 

“That child is half starved,” observed the 
Father as the little one bowed herself away. 
“There is the pallor of ill nourishment on her 
face, though it’s hard to discover it by reason 
of the dirt; and her features are pinched. 
Poor little girl! Look at her now.” 

The child, her back turned to the surging tide 


20 


ON THE RUN 


of humanity, was looking at the two coins, 
brushing them with her sleeve, and, no doubt, 
conjuring up visions of a hearty supper. She 
was for the moment supremely happy. And 
as the three occupants of the side-car still gazed 
she suddenly opened her mouth and broke into 
song. 

The priest and Joe looked at each other in 
amazement. It was the voice of an angel. 

Think of it!’’ whispered Joe; ‘‘she’s sing- 
ing ‘Bubbles in the Air.’ ” 

Utterly absorbed, oblivious of her surround- 
ings, the tiny flower girl, as her sweet voice 
rang out, traced with her right hand a succes- 
sion of bubbles in the air with gestures corre- 
sponding in grace to the poignant loveliness of 
her voice. She sang the chorus to the end and 
then stopped. 

“Well,” ejaculated Joe, “she may look like 
the devil, but she sings like an angel.” 

“Suppose we get on,” suggested Father 
Dalton. 

They drove up O’Connell Street. As they 
passed the Gresham Hotel, a flower woman, 
catching the eye of the priest, smiled, bobbed, 
and running into the street, came up beside the 
car. 

“God bless you. Father,” she said. “Here’s 
a bunch of roses. If you’re going to Gardiner 
Street ” 

“I am.” 

“Sure, I knew you were a Jesuit. Would 


JOE ARRIVES IN DUBLIN 


21 


you be kind enough to put these flowers before 
the statue of the Sacred Heart? Oh, Father,’’ 
she continued, ‘‘I don’t want your money. 
Tomorrow is the First Friday, and it’s the 
month of May too. Here are some flowers, too, 
for Our Lady’s altar.” 

‘^Sure, it’s a quare flower girl ye are,” ob- 
served Patrick. ‘‘Man and boy I druv the 
streets of Dublin for forty odd years, and 
you’re the first flower woman I ever saw who 
didn’t want all the money she could coax. Sure, 
ye don’t look to me to be genuine.” 

The flower woman meantime was pacing 
easily alongside the side-car, a matter of no 
great difficulty, as the horse was of a contem- 
plative disposition and going just then at a 
pace between running and fast walking. The 
woman wore a shawl over her head, a thin and 
tawdry affair. She was somewhat over medium 
size and moved with an ease which indicated at 
once strength and grace. She had piercing 
black eyes, eyes that in repose grew dreamy. 
Although she was strongly built, her features 
were clear-cut and regular. But there was 
something strange about her complexion. It 
was dark, quite in keeping with her raven-black 
hair, a wisp of which remained unconcealed by 
her shawl; so dark that she looked rather like 
a gypsy than an Irishwoman. As she trotted 
along beside the car, there came sweeping by 
another lorry filled with just such another 
crowd of Black-and-Tans as had already 


22 


ON THE RUN 


aroused Joe’s ire. This lorry turned at the 
nearest crossing beyond. 

“Bad cess to them!” grumbled Patrick. 
“What are they after? I believe I’ll follow 
them. ’ ’ 

“No,” cried the woman, her contralto voice 
suddenly becoming deeper. “I know better. 
Gro up to the next crossing. Don’t bring the 
Father that way.” 

Patrick, bringing his horse to a stop, looked 
keenly at the woman. She returned his gaze 
no less steadily. 

“Holy Mother!” gasped Patrick. “I’ll do 
as you say.” And Patrick did not follow the 
lorry. 

‘ ‘ God bless you. Father ; pray for me. Good- 
by, my boy. You’ll be a Sinn Feiner yet,” said 
the flower woman, and ran up the side street 
with accelerated speed. 

“I say,” cried Joe, “what is the meaning 
of all this?” 

“Oh, just nothing at all, at all.” 

“What’s the matter with that street?” 

“Sure, there’s nothing the matter with it 
just now.” 

“Was that woman a flower woman?” Father 
Dalton inquired. 

“She was not, your Eeverence.” 

“For goodness’ sake, who was she then?” 

“There do be lots of things we don’t talk 
about, your Eeverence. Sure it’s a quare way 
we’re in.” 

Just then a shot was heard. Joe jumped; 


JOE ARRIVES IN DUBLIN 23 

Father Dalton turned uneasily; the jarvey 
seemed to be deaf. Prompt upon that shot 
there rang out a f usilade ; and as Father Dalton, 
looking backward, perceived, there came run- 
ning from the side street which the lorry had 
taken a multitude of children and women, many 
of them carrying babies in their arms. Mean- 
time the roaring of guns continued. 

^‘Did that woman know what was to hap- 
pen?^’ asked Joe. 

‘^She did, sor. IPs an ambuscade.’^ 

‘‘A whatr’ 

‘‘And,’’ continued Patrick, “if we had gone 
that way it’s likely that instead of going to 
Gardiner Street we’d all have landed in a 
hospital. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER II 


JOB RANLY GETS AN IDEA OF WHAT IT IS TO BE 
ON THE RUN AND EXPLAINS UNDER CROSS- 
EXAMINATION WHY HE HAS LEFT AMERICA. 



^His place, soliloquized Joe Ranly, after 


A a meditative pause, “is no place for a 
minister's son.^^ 

“Were ye thinking of going backP’ asked the 
jarvey, gazing with some disfavor on the cap- 
tain of the St. Xavier College football team. 

“Going back! What^s the matter with you? 
If for nothing else, I’d stay here just to get a 
chance to meet that squint-eyed Black-and-Tan 
who pointed his gun at me. What would suit 
me would be to meet him alone in a dark alley 
some night when nobody was looking.” 

“Sure, it’s a bantam fighting cock you are 
entirely,” commented the driver, with a smile 
genial enough but hinting disparagement. 

“See here, Pat. I’m not as young as I look 
by a long shot. People think I’m Mteen, but 
I’m seventeen years old with six months and 
two days to the good. Until I left America, 
I put on the boxing gloves every day with the 
best boxing instructors in Cincinnati. Don’t 
you get to thinking I’m an infant.” 

Father Dalton ran his hand down the arm of 
young America from shoulder to elbow. 


24 


JOE RANLY ON THE RUN 


25 


“You’re as hard as nails,” he remarked. 
“No wonder that they say of you that you’re 
worth your weight in wildcats.” 

“Say, where did you get all that dope about 
me, Father? You must be a sport.” 

“Nevertheless,” pursued Father Dalton, “if 
you were worth a ton of wildcats, one bullet 
from a Black-and-Tan gun would end your 
career on this earth as completely as though 
you were a baby in arms. Suppose you were 
to be shot dead.” 

“Oh, lots of people have been shot.” 

“Yes; but don’t bother about lots of people. 
What al 30 ut yourself? I mean your soul, my 
boy.” 

“Oh, if I were to worry about that, I might 
lose my nerve. ‘ Conscience doth make cowards 
of us all.’ ” 

“Wirra, wirra!” exclaimed Pat. “Sure, 
and the like of that I never heard in all me 
life. In dear ould Ireland it’s the man who 
prays best fights best.” 

“I have been told,” added Father Dalton, 
“that there are in this land thousands and thou- 
sands of young Irishmen who fear only one 
thing in the world. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Machine guns ? ’ ’ queried Joe. 

“Mortal sin,” the priest made answer. 

“I never thought of it that way,” said Joe. 

Then the driver made a speech. They were 
now in Gardiner Street, and to say all that he 
desired he reined up his horse. He informed 
Joe that he knew of Sinn Feiners who, when 


26 


ON THE RUN 


sent upon some mission that meant almost cer- 
tain death, went to confession and communion, 
after which they looked forward with cheerful- 
ness, even in some cases with joy, to giving 
up their lives for faith and country. 

^^Look!^’ continued the jarvey, dramatically, 
pointing with his whip to the broad entrance 
to St. Francis Xavier ^s Church. 

It was an astonishing sight to the boy. 
People were entering and leaving in throngs — 
men and women, boys and girls. Guarding the 
outer gates was a flower woman; beside her a 
frowsy old lady with a basket, and a frowsier 
old man. These three worthless noted with 
quick and discerning eye every one that passed 
in or out. They were professional beggars. 
As the trio in the side-car stood gazing, they 
noticed not a few men and women dropping 
coins into the extended hands of these guard- 
ians of the gate. 

Looks like a tollgate,” observed Joe. ‘‘Do 
you notice that most of the people who give 
are coming out of church, not going inT’ 

“You’re right, Joe,” said Father Dalton. 
“These people entering are going to confes- 
sion ; those coming out have been to confession. 
No wonder they give, even if it is to the pro- 
fessional beggar. They are happy; they are 
in the state of grace.” 

“You mean to tell me all these people are 
going to confession? What’s the matter with 
them? Do they hear confessions only after six 
o’clock?” 


JOE RANLY ON THE RUN 


27 


“TheyVe been coming here all mornin’ and 
all afternoon/’ said Pat. “And they’ll keep 
on coming till half after nine this night.” 

“In Cincinnati,” said Joe with spirit, “I 
know of a chnrch where they hear confessions 
till after ten and eleven.” 

“Oh, sure! But they haven’t got the cur- 
few in Cincinnati.” 

“The curfew?” 

“Yes, sor. At ten o’clock we must all be 
the streets and in our homes.” 

“I’d like to see them keep me off the street 
at ten o’clock,” vaunted Joe. 

“Me boy,” said the jarvey, urging his horse 
forward, “I’d advise you to go to confession 
before you try anything like that. Here we 
are, your Eeverence. Step down. This is the 
house of the holy Jesuits.” 

“Well, Pat, how much is it?” 

“Sure, whatever your Eeverence pleases.” 

“Oh, come on; tell me your price.” 

“Five or six shillings, your Eeverence.” 

Father Dalton, with a grin, paid the double 
price, although Joe resented very much the 
father’s paying the bill. In fact, before they 
entered the Gardiner Street residence, Joe 
almost forced Father Dalton to receive what he 
had paid out. 

“Good-by, Patrick. May we meet again.” 

“God bless ye, your Eeverence! Whisper,” 
he added drawing Father Dalton aside. “Sure 
you’re as Irish as if you had spent your life 
with us here. Ye were born here?” 


28 ON THE RUN 

‘‘No, Patrick. I was born in the States, of 
Irish parents.’’ 

“Father, nobody wonld know it. You are 
Irish from the top of your head to the sole of 
your foot.” 

“You couldn’t make me a finer compliment.” 

“And do you find the country changed, I 
dunno, since ye were here before?” 

“But I was never here before.” 

“Sure, then, America must be a wonderful 
country. You seem to know all about us. Look 
ye. Father — if ever ye want a ride around 
Dublin or anywhere else in the neighborhood, 
ye’re a thousand times welcome, and no charge 
at all, at all. Just tell the porter here that ye 
want me. He knows me and can get me. May 
God bless you. Father. You’re as good as the 
best of our own.” 

In response to their ringing a young man 
opened the door and ushered them into the 
parlor. Presently Father McSorley entered. 

“Father McSorley,” said the American 
priest, “let me introduce myself first. I’m 
Father Dalton, a brother Jesuit from the Mis- 
souri Province and ” 

“You are more welcome than the flowers that 
bloom in the spring,” broke in the Irish Jesuit, 
with that full-hearted greeting which is charac- 
teristically Irish. “We get our spring flowers 
yearly but you only once in a lifetime. And 
this boy?” 

“Is Joe Eanly, the great quarterback of St. 


JOE RANLY ON THE RUN 


29 


Xavier College, Cincinnati, probably the great- 
est quarterback in the Middle West.’’ 

Father McSorley beamed upon the youth. 

‘‘Welcome, Joe. You’re small, but I fancy 
that every ounce of you counts. Have you had 
anything to eat?” continued this practical 
Jesuit. 

“Thank you. Father McSorley,” the Ameri- 
can priest made answer; “but business first.” 

“How truly American!” 

“This boy has a letter of introduction to 
you. He’s an interesting lad. We met casually 
at the depot ” 

“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Father 
McSorley, with interrogation in his face. 

“Oh, yes. I mean we met casually at the 
station here in Dublin.” 

“Oh, I see.” 

“Now, I judge he needs some help and ad- 
vice. I will leave him with you and get the 
porter to show me up to Father Cuneen, with 
whom I have often corresponded.” 

“Very good. Father Dalton.” As he spoke, 
Father McSorley walked to the door and hailed 
a passing small boy, a chubby little fellow with 
a pair of beautiful and mismated eyes, one blue 
and the other brown. 

“Tommy, call the clerk to bring Father 
Dalton to Father Cuneen ’s room.” 

“I will, sir,” answered Tommy. 

“Father, I have this letter for you,” said 
Joe as the visiting priest departed. 


30 


ON THE RUN 


‘‘Sit down, my boy. But before we go fur- 
ther wouldn^t you like a cup of tea?’^ 

“No, thank you. Father,’^ said Joe, suppress- 
ing a giggle. An Irish friend of his in Cin- 
cinnati had wagered that Joe would not be one 
hour in Dublin without being invited to “take 
a cup of tea.’’ 

“Well, sit down, and make yourself at 
home. ’ ’ 

Adjusting his glasses. Father McSorley read 
the following letter: 

“To the Reverend Father McSorley, 

“St. Francis Xavier Church, 

“Upper Gardiner Street, Dublin. 

“Reverend and dear Father — The bearer of 
this note is Joe Ranly, a typical American boy, 
of Cincinnati, Ohio. He is past seventeen years 
of age, a sprinter of no mean ability, a wonder- 
ful football player, and supposed to be able to 
lick his weight in wildcats. When I have said 
this, I, who am his uncle on his mother’s side 
have said pretty much all that can be said in 
his favor. He is smart enough, it is true; but 
studies take up the few hours of his waking life 
which he cannot give to amusements, eating, 
sleeping, nonsense, and athletics. In fact I 
doubt whether he would be attending college 
at all were it not for the opportunity it gives 
him to shine in football and kindred sports. 

“I said he was typically American. He comes 
out of our Melting Pot. He is of German and 
Irish blood, modified by the fact that his an- 


JOE RANLY ON THE RUN 


31 


cestors on both sides have been in the United 
States for three generations. As to the Ger- 
man side, he speaks with supreme contempt of 
Kaiser Bill; and as to the Irish, he takes as 
much interest in that dear land as he does in 
the manufacture of soap. The boy companions 
who are his neighbors are mostly the sons of 
capitalists — New England Stock — and are 
strongly pro-English. Again, possibly by reason 
of these companions, he is anything but relig- 
ious. What he gets in this way from the Jesuits 
of St. Xavier College, Cincinnati, he sloughs off 
very quickly in the vacation time. 

^‘For several years I have ardently desired 
to let him go to Ireland and visit his uncle, 
Bernard Daly.’^ 

As Father McSorley read this sentence, he 
started visibly, and gazed with increased inter- 
est at Master Joe, who, unconscious of the 
priest ^s scrutiny, was just then endeavoring 
with some measure of success to balance his 
fedora hat on the tip of his nose. The priest 
gave himself once more to the letter: 

^‘Unfortunately, the young gentleman at no 
time has shown the least interest in the pro- 
jected trip. Last summer, for instance, his only 
desire was to travel to Cleveland and see Babe 
Euth — our great ballplayer — ^make a home run. 
Mr. Euth^s team does not belong to the associa- 
tion which plays in Cincinnati. Joe went — ^he 
saw Babe Euth clout the ball for four bases, 
and was glad. 

“However, just two weeks ago he did some- 


32 


ON THE RUN 


thing which made it advisable for him to get 
out of the United States. He had to go. I 
leave you to get the story out of him. 

^‘Now, to get down to brass tacks. I have 
lost the address of his uncle, Bernard Daly ; but 
I know he is somewhere in or about Dublin. 
Will you see to it that Joe meets his uncle? I 
am sure that a month or two in a Catholic 
country and in an Irish Catholic home will do 
him a world of good. 

“I am writing this letter at the instance of 
his father, who is so extremely angry at his 
hopeful son that he cannot trust himself to put 
pen to paper. As my father once lived within 
the shadow of St. George’s and attended your 
church all his lifetime, I feel as though I were 
addressing an old friend. 

Joe brings from his father a check for two 
hundred dollars, good American dollars, which 
he begs you to use, as you judge fit, for the 
poor and distressed, especially the children. 

^‘Thanking you in advance for what you can 
do, I am 

‘‘Yours sincerely, 

“Michael Daly.” 

The priest folded the letter and lifted amiable 
eyes upon the youth. 

“Here’s that check, sir,” said Joe. 

“You seem to be a mind reader, my boy.” 

“Not at all. Father. I know that letter by 
heart. That’s an affectionate uncle I’ve got, 
isn’t it?” 


JOE RANLT ON THE BUN 


33 


Father McSorley laughed. 

‘‘That^s the way all my relations talk about 
me/’ growled Joe, with an aggrieved look. 
‘‘Anyhow they keep my head from swelling.” 

“Your good uncle, the name of whose father 
is still in benediction in this house, tells me 
you were obliged to leave.” 

“I can’t see it that way. Father. I was 
willing to stay and face the music; but my sis- 
ters and my cousins and my aunts got panicky. 
They cleared me out of Cincinnati before I 
knew what was happening.” 

“But what did you do, my boy?” 

“Oh, I only just played a joke.” 

“A joke! Do you mean to tell me that you 
had to leave home and country just because you 
played a joke?” 

“You see. Father, I played it on a police- 
man. ’ ’ 

“Oh, that’s it. In your country, then to play 
a joke on a policeman is a sort of penal 
offence.” 

“You’re getting it wrong. Father.” 

“Pray tell me, then, what sort of joke you 
played.” 

“Well, Father, it’s this way. This bird ” 

“I beg your pardon.” 

“This policeman and I were never good 
friends. I used to play ball in our street out 
in Walnut Hills, and this particular cop ” 

“What’s that, Joe?” 

“This cop — this policeman, you know — ^was 
always on my trail. One time he wanted to 


34 


THE RUN 


arrest me, and I was only a kid of twelve. An- 
other time he swiped my ball. ’ ^ 

^‘He swiped it? How did he do that?’^ 

‘‘Took it away, you know. Say, you talk 
beautifully, and I like the way you use your 
voice; but — excuse me for asking it — ^were you 
brought up in an English-speaking country?’’ 

Father McSorley was seized with a violent fit 
of coughing and pulling out his handkerchief, 
effectually concealed his face. 

“Is there anything wrong with my accent, 
Joe?” 

“Oh, you pronounce very nicely; but there’s 
a lot of English words you don’t seem to know 
the meaning of. I guess you got your English 
out of highbrow books. What are you laugh- 
ing at?” 

“Excuse me, Joe. If I remember right, that 
cop swiped your ball.” 

“That’s the talk. He was always doing some- 
thing to take the joy out of life. Just two 
weeks ago today it occurred to me to put one 
over on him.” 

“To put what over, Joe?” 

“To play a trick on him, you know. It was 
twilight. I saw him about a square from our 
house walking in my direction. I had a good 
strong string in my pocket, and I tied it across 
our pavement about one foot above the ground, 
stretching it from our fence to a hitching post.” 

“And then?” queried Father McSorley. 

“While I was waiting for him to come along, 


JOE RANLY ON THE RUN 


35 


out comes a friend of mine, Jack Leonard, 
with a cigarette in his face/^ 

‘ ‘ A cigarette where ? ’ ’ gasped the priest. 

‘‘In his mouth, you know. Jack is twenty, 
and nobody minds his smoking. I’m seven- 
teen myself, but look more like fourteen. That 
cigarette gave me an idea. ‘Here, Jack,’ I said ; 
‘let me have that coffin nail of yours for a min- 
ute.’ You know I don’t smoke, Father.” 

“So I would suppose. I’m sure your mother 
would not approve of it.” 

“That isn’t the reason.” 

“Nof” 

“You see it’s bad for the wind; and I want 
to keep fit. Well, I took that cigarette and put 
it in my f — between my lips, and pulfed away. 
The cop saw me and started after me. It was 
all going my way. I started to run backwards 
puffing. It’s a fine exercise, running back- 
wards, Father.” 

“No doubt,” assented the other. “But the 
policeman did not run backwards.” 

“No; but he might as well have done it. He 
kept his eyes on me, and of course he didn’t 
see that string. He was running fast when he 
struck it, and down he went quite as though I 
had tackled him in my best style. The fact is he 
fell too hard. I didn’t want him to fall hard; 
but he did. In thirty or forty minutes it was all 
settled, and I was whirling down in uncle’s auto- 
mobile to the depot. You see, I was in a hurry 
to get the train; a trolley would be too slow.” 

“A trolley?” 


36 


ON THE RUN 


‘‘Don^t you know what a trolley is? A street 
car. ’ ’ 

‘^Oh, I see. A tram.^’ 

‘‘No. I don^t know what a tram is. It was 
a car.’’ 

“And what did you go to a depot for?” 

“To catch the train for Canada. They all 
said I’d have to get out of the country at once.” 

“But, good heavens, boy! Why leave the 
country? Is it such a crime to trip up a-*-a — 
cop?” 

“There was no crime about it, Father. It 
was just a miscalculation.” 

“But how hard does a policeman have to fall 
to force you to leave your native land?” 

“I don’t think I should have left. He was 
carried oif in an ambulance to the hospital while 
I was beating it to the depot.” 

“Beating what?” 

“Going in the machine, you know.” 

“But what was he going to the hospital for?” 

“Why, didn’t I tell you? He broke his leg. 
It was just like my rotten luck. I was to have 
played second base just the next day for our 
baseball team in the biggest game of the sea- 
son.” 

“I am sure,” commented Father McSorley, 
“that it was very thoughtless of that cop to go 
and break his leg. He should have been more 
considerate.” 

“Go on and josh me, Father.” 

“But what about that policeman? Perhaps 
he had a wife and family.” 


JOE RANLY ON THE RUN 


37 


^‘Father/’ said Joe, with an engaging smile, 
‘‘I don’t mind telling you that I’ve worried 
about it a good deal. I’m very sorry. I know 
I was a fool.” 

‘‘As soon as a person begins to know that 
he is a fool, at that very moment he begins 
to grow wise.” 

“Father you’ve said a mouthful.” 

The priest started as though he had been 
struck, paused, then broke into a ringing laugh. 

“What’s the joke. Father?” 

“The joke, my boy, is that we have been 
talking in two different languages — ^you Ameri- 
can and I English.” 

“American language? I never heard of it.” 

“You may not have heard of it, Joe; but 
you’ve been talking it all your life.” 

Just at this moment there came a violent 
rapping at the door. 

“Something’s happened,” muttered Father 
McSorley, rising to his feet. “Come in.” 


CHAPTER III 


JOE LEARNS SOMETHING OF INTEREST CONCERN- 
ING ms UNCLE. 

F orthwith there burst into the room a 
Jesuit priest, Father Feeley, tall and strik- 
ing in appearance. 

^‘Father McSorley,’’ he cried out, in his ex- 
citement paying no attention to the presence 
of Joe Ranly, ‘‘I’m just back from the am- 
buscade.” 

“I hope none of our people were hurt.” 

‘ ‘ There were three badly wounded, eight 
slightly injured, one man was killed, and, 
father, one little girl — Patricia Bland.” 

“Patricia Bland!” exclaimed Father Mc- 
Sorley. “Why, that’s one of my little penitents 
and a daily communicant!” 

“Yes, Father ; she had just gone to you to con- 
fession and was on her way home. I saw her 
after you heard her confession. Before leaving 
the church she paid a short visit to the ‘Agon- 
izing Christ.’ I was just leaving my confes- 
sional and passed by her. There was an ex- 
pression on her face — ^love, compassion, en- 
treaty — ^which arrested me. I paused to look 
at her. If ever a child was closely united to 
Christ, she was. Innocence and love seemed to 
shine from her face. Presently she rose from 
her knees and, not being tall enough to kiss the 


38 


CONCERNING (JOE^S) UNCLE 39 


projecting foot of the Christ, she stood on tip- 
toe, touched it reverently with her hand, then 
kissed that part of her hand which had touched 
the sacred figure. Then she arose and set out 
for home. She never reached home. She left 
the church in the supreme innocence of unsul- 
lied childhood and sealed her virginity with 
her blood. 

“But how did it happen?’’ 

“She walked into the ambuscade. A stray 
bullet brought her down. Several of the fathers 
were called at once. I was one of the first to ar- 
rive. She was lying on the ground in the arms of 
a good woman, and was fully conscious. She 
had no confession to make, and it was the work 
of a few moments to anoint her and give her 
Holy Communion. Her face had gone deadly 
pale, but there was upon it a supreme happi- 
ness. ‘Sure, Father,’ she said, ‘I’ve made the 
nine first Fridays, and tomorrow I was going 
to start them again. But it’s better as it is. 
I’m going home.’ Then she sent loving mes- 
sages to her father and mother and brothers 
and sisters, and to you. Father. Finally she 
said, ‘And may the Sacred Heart have pity on 
dear old Ireland. Jesus, Mary, Joseph.’ With 
these words she died, without the semblance of 
an agony.” 

“Surely,” said Father McSorley, mastering 
his emotions, “there’s another strong friend 
of Ireland in heaven — a Holy Innocent, a vir- 
gin, a martyr of Christ. God help us! But 
what brought on this thing?” 


40 


ON THE RUN 


quite simple. About four o’clock to- 
day the Black-and-Tans got word that Michael 
Collins was visiting a certain house on that 
street, and steps were taken to capture him. 
There’s a big reward out, you know, for his cap- 
ture. Half an hour later the Irish patriots got 
word — just a few minutes before the lorries 
started out, seven in all, to close off all chance 
of escape. The Sinn Feiners got together in a 
hurry; and while some made an attack on the 
two lorries coming from O’Connell street, a 
strong body of the soldiers brought Michael 
Collins right past the point of attack. It was 
all over in less than five minutes.” 

came near getting mixed in that myself,” 
put in Joe, who forthwith told the two Jesuits 
of the strange flower woman. 

^Ht’s lucky you were traveling with a priest, 
Joe,” said Father M[cSorley. “The Irish are 
ever on the watch for the safety of their clergy ; 
and that flower woman — ” 

“She was no flower woman at all,” said the 
other priest. 

“In saving Father Dalton she saved you too.” 

“I wish,” said Joe devoutly, “that I had 
some of my American friends over here. 
Wouldn’t they learn a lot?” 

“Shake hands, my boy,” said Father Feeley. 
“Tomorrow there will be an item of news in 
all the English and American papers which 
will read like this: ‘On Thursday, May 5, an 
attack was made just off O’Connell Street in 
Dublin upon the English soldiers. Although 


CONCERNING {JOE^S) UNCLE 41 


outnumbered, the soldiers repelled the attack 
in a few minutes, wounding over twenty of the 
attackers and killing two. No losses are re- 
ported by the English soldiers. A little girl was 
shot by a stray bullet, probably from the at- 
tacking party.’ 

‘‘That’s the sort of articles they always send 
out,” said Father Feeley, his eyes flashing. 
“They give the world the impression that we 
Irish are killing and flghting for no reason. 
They never state that we are defending our own 
from imprisonment and death. Now I happen 
to know that eight Black-and-Tans were killed. 
They never let out their own losses. Well, I’m 
growing angry. I’d better go and pray.” And 
Father Feeley left the room. 

“You begin to see, Joe,” said Father Mc- 
Sorley, “how things are in this most distressful 
country?” 

“It is a sort of reign of terror. Father.” 

“Precisely. Do you know that there are 
thousands and thousands of men in Ireland, our 
best men at that, who are at home everywhere 
except in their own homes?” 

“I don’t quite get you. Father?” 

“You’ve just now heard how the Black- and- 
Tans were looking for Michael Oollins. They 
heard that he was staying in a house in one of 
our by-streets. Of course that house was not 
his home. For months and months that man 
has slept here and there and everywhere save 
only in his own home. He dare not go there; 
for if he did, the English would capture him. 


42 


ON THE RUN 


All over Ireland there are men in his condition. 
The English are looking for them; and so they 
disappear from home — they are homeless, and 
we say of them that they are ‘on the run.’ ” 

“Oh!” cried Joe, “I begin to understand 
what ‘on the mn’ means. So Ireland is a coun- 
try just now without homes.” 

“In a certain sense, yes. The men, the fight- 
ing men, the patriots, the lovers of right and 
justice and liberty, are everywhere — in town 
and hamlet and city and countryside and in 
the mountains and fields — everywhere but in 
their own homes.” 

Joe reflected for a moment. 

“Oh, say!” he suddenly burst out, “I’m on 
the run myself!” 

Father McSorley smiled. 

“Yes,” he admitted; “in a sense that is true. 
The police in the United States are possibly 
looking for you, and you are forced to leave 
home. But there’s a difference. You are on 
the run because in trying to play a trick on a 
policeman you broke his leg. Our men are on 
the run because they have proclaimed that Ire- 
land has a right to freedom. If you were cap- 
tured, it would mean a few days in court and a 
payment of damages ; if our men were caught, 
it would mean for some captivity, for others 
death.” 

“Keep on rubbing it in, Father,” said Joe 
humbly. 

“And now, Joe, you won’t be very shocked to 
hear that your uncle Bernard is on the run too.” 


CONCERNING {JOE^S) UNCLE 43 

‘‘He is! Well, I^m proud of him. What did 
he doT’ 

“His story is a strange one, Joe. To begin 
with, no finer man attends our church. He was a 
daily communicant, he had some income and 
gave his time to study, writing and athletics. 
Although about thirty-two years of age, he has 
the strength and agility of a young man of 
twenty-four. After the famous Easter upris- 
ing here endeavors were made to enlist his in- 
terests in the Sinn Fein movement. There was 
no question as to which way his sympathies lay. 
His love for Ireland was unquestioned. But 
Bernard was scrupulous to a fault. He could 
not make up his mind to commit himself defi- 
nitely to the movement. About six months ago 
he was walking along a lone road just on the 
outskirts of Dublin when, making a sharp 
turn in the wayside, he came upon a Black-and- 
Tan who was offering his evidently unwelcome 
attentions to a country girl. The Black-and- 
Tan, to do him justice, was under the influence 
of liquor. So absorbed was this apology for a 
soldier that he was not aware of Bernard’s ap- 
proach; and Bernard, for his part, made no 
attempt to apprize him. The soldier, as 
Bernard started on a tiptoe run for him, seized 
the girl’s arm. ‘Help!’ she cried. The words 
were not well out of her mouth when Bernard, 
coming full tilt, landed the best blow of his 
life on the jaw of the fellow, who went down 
unconscious.” 

“Oh, I want to meet Uncle Bernard!” ex- 


44 


ON THE RUN 


claimed Joe. “I wish. I had uncles like that in 
America. My uncles over there play billiards 
and golf. But what happened thenf^’ 

‘‘Your uncle told the girl to run, instead of 
which she fainted. Of course he had to revive 
her. That meant running for water. Also, he 
threw the Black^and-Tan^s gun into some bushes 
near by. He brought her to at last, and by that 
time the Black-and-Tan was sitting up, looking 
dazed and wondering where he was. ‘Kun 
home, girl!^ said your uncle. The girl glanced 
at the Black-and-Tan, and that seemed to put 
new life into her. She disappeared in a jiffy. 

“ ‘Where’s my gun?’ said the soldier, pick- 
ing himself up. 

“ ‘Did you have one?’ asks your uncle. 

“ ‘What’s happened to me,’ continued the 
fellow. 

“ ‘I think somebody must have thoughtfully 
knocked you down,’ says your uncle. 

“ ‘You come along with me,’ commanded the 
soldier. 

“ ‘I will not.’ 

‘ ‘ The fellow fished into his pockets, but there 
was no weapon of any sort about his person, 
thanks to the forethought of Bernard. 

“ ‘If you don’t come along peacefully, I’ll 
make you,’ said the soldier. 

“ ‘Fine! Just come and take me,’ answered 
your uncle, squaring off. 

“Within five seconds the Black-and-Tan went 
down ; but he rose promptly, and spurring him- 
self on with a mighty flow of profani^, re- 


CONCERNING {JOE^S) UNCLE 45 

snmed his attack. In a few moments he was 
down again. He, made no show this time of 
attempting to rise. Your nncle had scored a 
second knock-out. While assuring himself of 
this, Bernard heard footsteps nearing the sharp 
turn. Bernard Daly, my boy, is the quickest 
man I ever met. He leaped to the hedge near- 
est the turn and crouched low. In the very 
moment there appeared a burly Black-and-Tan 
swinging his gun loosely. Bernard, in a spring 
and with one jerk, had the gun out of his hands ; 
in the fraction of a second he had it cocked, and 
turned to find two more Black-and-Tans bliss- 
fully unconscious of what had just happened. 

‘Drop your guns and up with your hands 
or I fire,’ he bellowed out, with the roar of a 
raging bull. Two guns were dropped and three 
pair of hands went up. 

“ ‘Say, young man; it’s no use,’ said the cool- 
est of Bernard’s prisoners. ‘There’s a lot of 
our men coming along after us. They’ll be here 
in a minute or two.’ 

“ ‘Thank you for the information. Now just 
step forward around this turn and line up with 
your bloody-nosed companion. That’s it. Now 
stand at attention. Very good. When your 
friends — ^if Black-and-Tans have any friends — 
come along, and you hear their steps, you are 
not to make a sound. If you do, you’ll get a 
bullet. ’ 

“There was that about your uncle’s voice 
which carried conviction to the three prisoners. 
Lined up against the hedgerow they not only 


46 


ON THE RUN 


stood at, but showed, perfect attention. The 
gun in your uncle ^s hands fascinated them. 
The moments passed into minutes. After a 
while, the upraised hands of the Black-and- 
Tans began to tremble ; but the gun your uncle 
held stood out as steady as though it were laid 
across a table. That man has the most extraor- 
dinary nerves. 

‘If any man asks you,’ said Bernard, who 
for all his coolness was burning inwardly with 
fury, ‘what I am, you may tell him that I’m a 
Sinn Feiner, and that I became one at the 
moment when I saw that bloody-nosed, black- 
eyed brute insulting an Irish girl.’ 

‘ ‘ Then your uncle became silent and strained 
his hearing. What should he do if more Black- 
and-Tans arrived? Your uncle, as he has 
often told me, has one prayer when he finds him- 
self in difficulties. He said it then, slowly, fer- 
vently, under his breath: ‘We fly to thy pro- 
tection, 0 holy Mother of God, despise not our 
petitions in our afflictions, but deliver us from 
all dangers, 0 ever glorious and blessed Virgin 
Mary.’ ” 

“That’s a great prayer,” cried Joseph, so 
excited that he stuttered. “Just the thing for 
a fellow when he’s up a tree. It’s going to be 
mine from now on. But go on. Father. If you 
don’t think I shall bust.” 

“When Bernard had said this prayer six or 
selven times, he discerned in the distance a 
slight movement. Without a change in his ex- 
pression he fixed his gaze intently. There was 


CONCERNING (JOE’S) UNCLE 47 

no doubt of it there was a crowd approaching. 
Could they be Black-and-Tans ? Probably not, 
as they were expected from the other direction. 
No, there were no guns in their hands, no uni- 
forms on their persons ; there was a woman with 
them and they were all running. And the 
woman was the girl whom he had saved. ’ ’ 

‘‘Glory halleluia!’^ cried Joe. 

“And the crowd was made up of men and 
boys. As your uncle, fixed and unchanging, 
still gazed, the rescuers took in the situation. 
They were not yet within earshot. They 
paused ; there was a momentary whispered 
conference; then from the halting group six 
stalwart young men, quickly removing their 
shoes, ran forwardly noiselessly. 

“ ‘Before your Black-and-Tan friends come 
along, ’ bawled your uncle, in a voice that would 
drown out the marching of a troop, ‘I want you 
to understand that this fellow I punched is to 
tell why I attacked him and knocked him down 
three times. Do you understand, sir? Will you 
promise me to tell — ’ 

“That was as far as your uncle, who was 
sparring for time, could get; for synchron- 
ously the three barefooted young men threw 
themselves on the totally unprepared Black- 
and-Tans and brought them to the ground. A 
few seconds later these so-called soldiers of the 
king were neatly trussed. The guns were at 
once picked up by the invading party. 

“ ‘Here,’ said your uncle to the third one of 
the young men, ‘take this thing. It’s cocked 


48 


ON THE RUN 


and I don’t know what to do with it.’ Then 
your nncle broke into a langh. ‘The fact is,’ 
he explained, ‘I never fired a gnn in my life. 
Glory be to God! I can’t even imagine how I 
cocked it. But before night I’m going to take 
lessons.’ 

“A few words passed between him and the 
invaders, whereupon all hurried off, leaving the 
trussed Black-and-Tans to their own somewhat 
limited devices.” 

“And he didn’t even know how to use a gun! 
My! Talk about nerve! We Americans have 
nothing on the Irish. And what happened to 
the Black-and-Tans?” 

“Naturally, your uncle did not wait to see. 
And he did not go home that night. But he 
was near enough to see nine lorries drive up 
to his home. Since that time he has never slept 
in his own house.” 

“Where is he. Father?” 

“He is here and there and everywhere. To- 
day there is not a better shot in the I. E. A. ” 

“The what?” 

“The I. E. A. — the Irish Eepublic Army. 
They say that he carries his life in his hands as 
jauntily as most men sport a cane. He’s any- 
where and everywhere in Ireland; but it’s very 
difficult to trace him. He goes about disguised. ’ ^ 

Joe rose to his feet. 

“Father,” he said. “I didn’t want to come 
over here. I wasn’t interested in the Irish. I 
didn’t care one way or the other. But now — Oh 
gosh! ain’t I glad I came. That uncle of mine 


CONCERNING {JOE^S) UNCLE 49 

is a wonder. I^m dead stuck on him; and I 
want everybody to know that 1^11 not leave this 
country till IVe found him and thrown my 
arms about the most wonderful uncle that a 
fellow ever had.^’ 

The priest shook Joe’s hand warmly. 

‘‘If you knew,” he said, “what I know about 
Bernard Daly, you’d look upon him not only as 
the bravest of men but as a saint. Tonight 
I’ll send out inquiries and try to find out where 
your uncle is. But before we go further, won’t 
you take a cup of tea?” 

“Thank you. Father. Crossing the Channel 
I spent a good part of my time eating. Fact is, 
I took too much for a fellow who wants to keep 
fit. You must pardon me, father, for taking 
up so much of your time, but you had me ex- 
cited. I didn’t know how the time was passing. 
I— I feel all lit up.” 

“Could I help you, Joe, in getting a lodging 
or a hotel?” 

“No hotel for me,” said Joe. “I want to see 
some more Irish. If I could get a room with 
an Irish family — ” 

“Why, certainly. There’s the widow 0’- 
Eourke. She has five daughters — all grown up. ’ 

“I pass,” said Joe simply. “Widows and 
grown-up daughters do not appeal to me.” 

“Then there’s Mr. and Mrs. John Malone. 
They live all alone and they are both old.” 

“Give me another choice,” said Joe. 

“Oh, yes. There’s John McGroarty, the 
heavy-weight lifter.” 


50 


ON THE RUN 


‘^Now, you’re shouting!” cried Joe. 

‘‘He lives just a few doors above, himself 
and his wife and little daughter of eight. She’s 
a fine Irish dancer. They have a spare room 
and will be glad to take you in for two or 
three shillings a day. ’ ’ 

“Can that man box?” 

“He’s a professional, though he retired from 
the ring about one year ago. He’s very well 
up in all matters of athletics.” 

“That’s the place for me,” said Joe. “Why, 
I’ll be in training here just the same as at 
home ; and who knows but everything will be ar- 
ranged over there before the opening of the 
football season? How can I find Mr. Mc- 
Groarty’s house?” 

“I’d gladly show you the way myself,” said 
the priest, taking Joe’s hands in liis, “but as 
you may know, the First Friday confessions 
are going on, and there must be a mob waiting 
at my confessional by this time. One of the 
wonders of Ireland is the devotion of our people 
to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Tomorrow there 
will be about five thousand communions dis- 
tributed in our church.” 

“That’s going some!” observed Joe. 

“So I’m going to put you in the hands of 
Tommy Leeson. Tommy!” 

The little boy with the eyes that were ditfer- 
ent came hurrying in. 

“Tommy, this is my American friend, Joe 
Ranly, just arrived on our shores.” 

“A thousand welcomes to you, sir.” 


CONCERNING (JOE^S) UNCLE 51 


“Glad to meet you,’^ answered Joe, shaking 
the little extended hand vigoronsly. 

“Good-by, Joe. Call on me tomorrow abont 
ten o ’clock. And, Tommy, yon take care of my 
friend.” 

“I will, yonr Keverence.” 

‘ ‘ Come on. Tommy. Do yon know where Ml. 
John McGroarty lives?” 

“I do, sir.” 

“And will yon take me there?’ 

“I will, sir,” answered Tommy as the two 
walked ont of the Jesnit residence into Gardi- 
ner Street. 

Joe pansed beside the threshold and gazed 
abont him. "'It was now eight o’clock and broad 
daylight. The street was anything bnt empty. 
Children were playing hop-scotch and other 
games, donkeys hitched to all manner of odd 
vehicles were passing np and down; bnt the 
main centre of activity was St. Francis Xavier 
Chnrch. Crowds were standing withont, crowds 
were entering, crowds were leaving, while the 
three beggars were, apparently, enjoying a 
red-letter day. 

“Tommy, I’m thinking of going in that 
chnrch.” 

“ ’Tis a good thonght, sir.” 

“There’s a pictnre in there of ‘The Agoniz- 
ing Christ.’ ” 

“It’s a statue, sir.” 

“Do yon know where it is?” 

“I do, sir.” 

“I want yon to bring me to it.” 


52 


ON THE RUN 


will, sir.’’ 

They entered, and with some difficulty made 
their way beyond the extra communion railing 
which divides the church almost equally. Turn- 
ing to the left, they entered one of the many 
niches of this home of devotion. One of the 
three chief altars was facing them. On the re- 
mote left side, mounted on a pedestal, stood a 
touching figure of Christ, seated weary and 
worn. More eloquently than the pose, the 
sweet lines of the sad face recalled the memor- 
able verse of the Dies Irae: 

Quaerens me sedisti lassus. 

Grouped about it were many trouble-bur- 
dened souls. One would surmise, gazing in 
the tear-stained faces of an old woman and of 
a weeping girl, that all the sorrows of sorrow- 
ful Ireland were brought to Him who bore the 
sorrows of all. To that shrine came the colleen 
whose loved one was on a hunger strike; the 
betrothed whose chosen one was wandering 
shelterless, with a price upon his head, among 
the bleak hills of Connemara ; the parents 
whose boy had died that Ireland might live. 
J oe, as he took one brief look, sensed something 
of all this. He kneeled, thinking as he fell upon 
his knees, that he, at any rate, had no sorrow 
to expose to the All-Compassionate. He lifted 
his eyes. They fell upon the sacred foot, which 
the old lady, the tears still coursing down her 
cheeks, had risen to kiss. Then his thoughts 
flew to a desolate home where a little girl, a 
virgin, a saint, a martyr, just now lay sealed 


CONCERNING (JOE^S) UNCLE 53 


forever in lier sanctity by death. Aronnd her 
were grouped a heart-broken mother and father 
and weeping brothers and sisters. Their agony 
became Joe’s. Suddenly his thoughts struck 
a different channel. Over in America there lay 
in some hospital a policeman, helpless, unable 
to move. Surely the man had a wife and chil- 
dren. What about them? For the moment 
their agony became Joe’s and for the first time 
he prayed for the man he had wronged. Once 
more he raised his eyes. His imagination 
grew active. He could see that sweet little bare- 
footed girl arising from her knees, standing on 
tiptoe and reaching forward in a last beautiful 
gesture, touching the foot of Christ, and kissing 
the hand where it had touched the foot. For the 
first time in his life Joe was filled with a sense 
of the supernatural. He felt that ministers of 
grace” unseen were all about him. He arose, 
kissed the foot, and turning to Tommy, whis- 
pered, ‘Hf you don’t mind waiting a few min- 
utes, I believe I’ll go to confession.” 


CHAPTER rV 


THE CURFEW, AND HOW IT AFFECTED JOE. 

^^1^0 you know, Tommy, said Joe, as he 
handed each of the three beggars a six- 
pence, “that I feel like a morning star?^^ 

“I do not, sir.^’ 

“Well, I do. I feel very Irish and very 
Catholic. ’ ’ 

“Sure, they^re both the one, sir.’^ 

“Now conduct me to Mr. McGroarty^s.’^ 

“I will, sir. 

To Joe’s manifest disappointment, neither 
John McGroarty nor his little Irish daughter, 
Eileen, was at home. Mr. McGroarty was at 
that moment giving an exhibition of weight lift- 
ing at a charity bazaar, and Eileen was with 
him, prepared, should there arise the occasion, 
to favor the attending people with a program of 
Irish dances. Mrs. McGroarty, however, was at 
home. She would be delighted to have Joe as 
a lodger. She had a brother in America who 
had prospered, and she loved America next to 
dear old Ireland. 

“And won’t you take a cup of tay?” she 
asked. 

Joe grinned and shook his head. 


54 


THE CURFEW 


55 


‘ ‘ And when do you expect your husband and 
little Eileen backr^ 

‘‘Sure, they’ll be here in an hour’s time. 
They must be in by ten o’clock.” 

“Well, I’ll go out and explore a little; and — 
I say, Tom, what about my baggage — er — 
luggage?” 

“The dark will bring it here, sir.” 

“The what?” 

“He means,” explained Mrs. McGroarty, 
‘ ‘ the young man who attends to the door. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I see. Clark? How do you spell that 
word?” 

“C-l-e-r-k, sir.” 

“You mean clerk?” 

“I do not, sir; I mean dark.” 

“Well, have you time for a walk?” 

“I have, sir.” 

“All right. Good-bye, Mrs. McGroarty, I’ll 
be in to see your people in an hour or two.” 

“Eemember, Joe,” said the lady of the house, 
“you must be in before ten.” 

“I should worry!” answered Joe lightly. 
“So this is Gardiner Street?” he continued as 
they left the house. 

“It is, sir.” 

“And what is that park down there?” 

“It is Mountjoy Square, sir.” 

“I am glad to see you have a fine place like 
that,” said Joe, making conversation. “There 
are so many children around here ! Why, this 
is a land of children. They are everywhere. 


56 


ON THE RUN 


Why aren’t these children in that park instead 
of being on the streets?” 

‘‘It’s a private green, sir.” 

“Private! What the — . Who owns it?” 

“I do not know, sir. But only them is ad- 
mitted as have a key to the gates.” 

“And who have keys to the gates?” 

“It is for them as lives aronnd in the honses 
facing the square, sir. But they do be telling 
me that if you pay a few shillings a year you 
may have a key.” 

“Well, I’U be — ” Here Joe paused, medi- 
tated, and said — “switched. I want to go in.” 

When Joe wanted a thing he generally got 
it. He waited patiently at one of the gates till 
someone came out. Joe, followed by his aston- 
ished young guide, took advantage of the open- 
ing. He had a baseball in his pocket ; and when, 
a few minutes later, he gave Tommy a few 
lessons in that part of the American national 
game known as catching or ball-tossing, the 
tennis players laid aside their rackets and be- 
came spectators. Presently Joe began to put 
a curve on the ball, whereupon idle curiosity 
changed to admiration. 

There was one young man — a ladies’ man — 
among the spectators who did not share the ad- 
miration of the others. If there was any lime- 
light to be thrown, he wanted it exclusively for 
himself. 

“He’s one of those rotten Americans,” he 
remarked to the young lady who had been his 
partner on the tennis court, “who knows base- 


THE CURFEW 


57 


ball and nothing else. Watch me show him up. 
Beg your pardon, sir,” he said, bestowing a 
stealthy wink, as he spoke, upon the fair one, 
‘‘but would you care to try a game of tennis 
with me? I’ll be glad to furnish you with a 
racket. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Delighted, ’ ’ answered Joe. “ Here, Tommy, 
get one of your friends to catch with you. ’ ’ 

“He really seems to know something else be- 
sides baseball,” remarked the young lady a 
little later. “It was a ‘love’ affair for you fronoc 
start to finish.” 

“He’s a professional,” growled the discom- 
fited ladies’ man. “Wait till Pat Crellin gets 
through with him!” 

Joe had met a foeman worthy of his steel. 
Pat Crellin was the bright particular tennis 
star of Mount] oy Square. It was difficult to 
say which of the two was the better player. 
Two games were hotly contested, each player 
winning a set. Then a halt was called. 

“Young man,” said Pat, shaking Joe’s 
hand warmly, “being what you are, how I wish 
you were an Irishman!” 

“I feel that way myself,” returned Joe, the 
hero of the moment. “But what’s your hurry? 
You don’t mean to say you want to stop now?” 

“But it’s a quarter to ten,” urged Pat, a 
young man who was Joe’s senior by five years, 
“and I give myself ten minutes to get home.” 

“Oh, the curfew!” cried Joe. “But what’s 
the difference? Who’s going to bother about a 
few more minutes at a game of lawn tennis?” 


58 


ON THE RUN 


Pat laughed. 

‘‘The English have different opinions. Be- 
fore ten o’clock strikes every mother’s son of 
,us has to hurry in.” 

“Just like a lot of naughty children being 
put to bed,” said Joe bitterly. 

“Come on, sir,” said Tommy, flushed and 
rosy, returning the ball to its owner. “I must 
be getting home. I have a walk better than 
five minutes.” 

As the two left the Square they came upon 
two small mobs of boys, evidently just finished 
with some game. 

“What were you fellows playing?” asked 
Young America. 

“Cowboys and Indians, sir,” answered a 
chorus. “And we were the cowboys, and we’re 
after beating the Indians,” continued their 
leader, “with only two of us scalped.” 

If Joe had told these boys that he had seen 
cowboys only once in his life, and that in a 
Wild West show, not one of them would have 
believed that he came from the United States. 
But they did not wait to hear further remarks 
from him. All were bent on making their 
homes. It was ten minutes to ten, and the light 
was so good that any one with ordinary eyes 
could read fine print. Nevertheless it was bed- 
time. 

Joe paused to observe. Children were scurry- 
ing hither and thither like frightened prairie 
dogs. Mothers, anxious mothers, were running 
into the street after their little ones or leaning 


THE CURFEW 


59 


out of windows and calling with raised voices 
for Patrick or Mary or Eileen or Michael. The 
streets were emptying fast. 

‘‘Excuse me, sir,’’ said Tommy, “but I do 
be thinking that I’ll have to run for it. Me 
mother will be getting uneasy. That’s your 
way.” Here Tommy pointed up the street. 
“You pass our church and go on to Sherrard 
Street. It’s on the farther side.” 

“I know,” said Joe. “Here, Tommy, buy 
your sisters some hair ribbons or candy or 
something — and run.” 

And Tommy, richer by two shillings, dashed 
away with a light heart and lighter legs. 

Joe, hands in pockets, strolled along. The 
street was buried in gloomy silence. He reached 
Great Denmark Street, and it occurred to him 
then to walk over and view St. George’s 
Church, the spire of which had excited his ad- 
miration. It was five minutes to ten by its 
clock when he came in front of its portals. 
Children were running past it in a dead silence 
which seemed to have gripped the entire city. 
Joe stood before St. George’s buried in thought. 
The silence, the awful silence, was bearing 
down upon him like a nightmare. Never in all 
his life in America had he felt as he did now. 
What could it be? He meditated long — ^medi- 
tated earnestly. 

“Oh, I have it!” he cried, slapping his thigh. 
“It’s the talking machines and pianos. That’s 
the difference. You can go anywhere at night 
in America, and you hear phonographs, and 


60 


ON THE RUN 


horns, and pianos, and what not. The poorest 
people in onr country have some sort of musical 
instrument in their homes. Perhaps they have 
them here too ; but just as like as not the Black- 
and-Tans won’t let them use them.” 

Just then chimes here and there began sound- 
ing the hour of ten. 

^‘Gee!” said Joe. ‘‘I guess I’ll have to run 
for it.” 

It was a most unhappy decision. Joe turned 
and ran as though pursued by an army of 
fiends. It was a pity that so admirable a demon- 
stration of speed had no witnesses. In less time 
than it takes to tell he reached Dorset Street, 
and turned towards Gardiner. Once he won 
that street it would be but a few seconds before 
he was in safety. 

^^Halt,” cried a rough voice directly behind 
him. 

The challenger might as well have advised 
Joe to run faster, which is precisely what the 
young gentleman did. 

A shot rang out. Joe could hear the bullet, 
he fancied, whizzing over his head. Somewhat 
frightened but mightily enraged, Joe turned 
to face his pursuer. Towards him, running 
awkwardly, came a man in the uniform of one 
of his majesty’s soldiers. He was within twenty 
yards of J oe. Punning forward a few paces, the 
representative of what by a bitter irony might 
be called law raised his gun and pointed it 
straight at the very attentive boy. 

In justice to the Black-and-Tan it should be 


THE CURFEW 


61 


stated that the fellow had no intention what- 
ever at that time of shooting the boy. He was 
merely indulging in a Black-and-Tan pleas- 
antry. No Black-and-Tan can possibly have a 
highly developed, even a fairly developed, sense 
of humor. If he had he would cease in the 
developing to be a Black-and-Tan. But these 
gentry have that sense of humor which we find 
in cannibals and Georgian clay eaters. To 
scare a child into fits is with them high humor. 
This man with the pointed gun was amusing 
himself. 

Joe did not share in the mirth. The baseball 
was in his hand. He had whipped it from his 
pocket in the act of halting. With the quick- 
ness that had done so much to make him the 
famous quarterback of St. Xavier’s Cincinnati 
football team, Joe sent that ball with all his 
force at the enemy’s trigger hand, and as he 
did so threw himself flat on the ground. The 
precaution was unnecessary. The gun, it is 
true, did go off, but the bullet sped towards 
the sky. Joe’s aim was not perfect. The ball 
had struck the guardian of the law on the crazy- 
bone, to such effect that the man, having pulled 
the trigger involuntarily, danced with pain and 
swore with fury, while Joe, picking himself up, 
dashed away to shelter. 

Still swearing and roaring lustily, the soldier 
of his sovereign majesty, the king, recovered 
the gun which had fallen from his hands and 
resumed the hot pursuit. But the loss of time 
entailed by the recovery of the weapon was more 


62 


ON THE RUN 


than enough for Joe, who, watched by a thou- 
sand shining eyes from the windows on either 
side of the street, dashed forward with a speed 
which evoked the highest admiration and good 
wishes of the sympathetic spectators. A num- 
ber of little boys in various houses were unable 
to control their joyous feelings. They broke 
into rapturous applause, for which many of 
them were promptly spanked by their mothers 
and put to bed. 

Everybody thought that Joe was safe — 
everybody, including Joe himself. He had 
rounded the corner at Gardiner Street and was 
within a few paces of McGroarty’s house. His 
pursuer was not even in sight. 

‘‘I hope their door isnT locked,’’ prayed Joe. 
And even as the hope passed through his mind 
two Black-and-Tans emerging from Sherrard 
Street threw themselves upon him and brought 
him violently to the ground. 

^‘Hold him! Hold him!” gasped the pur- 
suer as he appeared, turning the corner. ‘‘He 
tried to kill me.” 

“Here, you people, get off me; I’m not a 
sofa,” exclaimed Joe indignantly. His captors 
rose at his words, holding him tightly. 

“What’s your little game, young feller?” 
said one of them. 

“Since you fellows are holding my arms so I 
can’t use ’em, suppose you brush me off. I 
just love the dust and dirt of Irish streets, 
but I don’t love it in the wrong place.” 

While the two, to the exuberant delight of the 


THE CURFEW 


63 


window occupants, dusted oft the indignant 
young gentleman, the cause of Joe’s plight came 
within speaking distance. 

^‘That bloke tried to kill me. Hold him fast. 
He threw a bomb at me.” 

‘‘A bomb!” echoed Joe. ^‘You’re a bum 
yourself. I threw a baseball at you; and it 
served you right. You were just going to shoot 
me.” 

was not. It was a joke.” 

‘‘Where’s my ball?” asked Joe. “What did 
you do with it?” 

Before the furious soldier could think up 
suitable expletives for reply, the window of Mr. 
John McGroarty’s residence was raised, and 
there appeared the full head and gigantic bust 
of a man who, Joe at once concluded, was 
McGroarty himself. Behind him, pale and 
trembling stood his wife. 

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he said. 
“But I’m sure there’s some mistake. That 
young gentleman is a guest of ours. He’s a 
stranger in Dublin — — ” 

“Silence!” broke in one of the soldiers. 
“He can explain all that to our sergeant. 
Come on, boy!” 

They turned into Sherrard Street, and Joe’s 
original aggressor strode in front. 

“Well, I’ll be switched!” gasped Joe. 

“What’s the matter, boy?” queried one of 
his captors. 

“I’ve met that humorist before,” and he 
nodded towards the fellow in front. “I’ll never 


64 


ON THE RUN 


forget that jagged scar across his forehead, 
nor that toothbrush moustache, nor that pair 
of buck teeth. And,^^ continued the frank 
youth, ‘‘I believe he’s got the same big quid 
of tobacco bulging out his left jaw as he had 
when he pointed his gun at me in my jaunting 
car, and himself in his lorry.” 

‘‘I wish I had you by myself,” growled the 
Apollo referred to, with a string of oaths to 
emphasize the strength of his feelings. 

‘‘You don’t wish it near as much as I do,” 
retorted Joe. “I’d just hate to leave Ireland 
before we had that little meeting. ’ ’ 

There was a lorry, a caged lorry, halfway 
down the street at the curb. 

“Jump in,” said the leader. 

“But I don’t want to go in,” protested the 
boy. 

The two captors bore him forward, and the 
humorist playfully struck him a blow on the 
back of the neck from behind. Joe’s playful- 
ness asserted itself — the playfulness of a trick 
mule. He kicked backwards and by a lucky 
fluke caught the practical joker on the left 
knee. It took the strength of the three other 
Black-and-Tans to keep the howling victim 
from indulging in further pleasantries. 

The barracks which they shortly reached 
were full of captives — guilty villains, most of 
them, who had been found on the street in de- 
fiance of England’s curfew law. Joe was 
placed on a bench to await his turn. 

The officer in charge was typically English, 


I’HE CURFEW 


65 


and correspondingly slow. The quarters 
passed, an hour elapsed, and Joe was still 
waiting. 

At twenty minutes past eleven there en- 
tered an inspector, a decent man in the opinion 
of all Dublin, accompanied by Mr. John Mc- 
Groarty. That personage was everything Joe 
expected of a wrestler ; so stocky that he seemed 
to be undersized, with a round massive head, 
and jaws that indicated viselike strength. 

Mr. McGroarty^s eyes swept the room till 
they paused and brightened when they were 
regain by the vision of Joe Eanly. 

There he is,’’ he whispered to the inspec- 
tor, as he nodded and grinned at Joe. ‘‘He’s 
a mere boy.” 

The inspector walked over and shook Joe’s 
hand. 

“What did you do?” he asked kindly. 

“Do? I got into trouble for trying to obey 
your measly old law. It struck ten, and I shot 
out for home, and one of your cops fired a 
bullet over my head ; and when I took the hint 
and halted, he pointed his gun at me. I thought 
he was going to fire and I threw my baseball 
at his hand on the trigger. I must have been 
nervous ; I missed his hand and caught him on 
the crazy-bone, I reckon. Anyhow, I’ve lost 
my ball.” 

“I’m sure he didn’t intend to shoot.” 

“I’m beginning to think so myself, sir, now. 
It’s his way of being funny.” 

“I’ll arrange everything,” said the inspector. 


66 


ON TEE RUN 


After a whispered conference with the oflScer 
in charge, the inspector returned. 

‘‘It is all arranged,’’ he said. “There’s a 
lorry waiting without to take you both home. 
I’m really very sorry. As to the fellow who 
aimed at you with his gun — George Hill is his 
name — ^he’s one of the biggest idiots imported 
into this city. We’re going to send him out of 
Dublin within a few days.” 

As the lorry conveyed the two newly made 
friends homeward, Joe and McGroarty entered 
into a most exciting though whispered conver- 
sation. It was on the comparative merits of 
Dempsey and Carpentier. Suddenly McGroarty 
paused. 

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he said, 
raising his voice. “But I’ve a little daughter 
who is frightened to death on account of the 
arrest of this boy. If we drove up to our house 
in this lorry, it might throw her into a fit. 
Suppose you stop a hundred yards or so this 
side of the house.” 

Mr. McGroarty ’s wishes were acceded to, 
and the two newly made friends started walk- 
ing quietly up the street. They had not made 
fifty yards when there pounced upon them from 
the shadows of St. Francis Xavier Church fully 
a dozen men. 

Before Mr. McGroarty discovered who they 
were, he had knocked three of them do;^, one 
of them unconscious; and while he paused on 
recognizing that they were Black-and-Tans, Joe 
deftly administered a black eye to a fourth. 


THE CURFEW 


67 


Sorry,” said McGroarty blandly, as he 
threw up his hands. “Stop your scrapping, 
Joe. And now let me explain.” 

“Come on, both of ye,” said their leader. 
“Ye can spend the night explaining at the 
barracks. ’ ’ 

“Say, is this a joke?” roared Joe. 

The unresisting pair were bundled around 
the corner once more and into lorry number 
three. 

“But look you,” protested McGroarty — “this 
is hideous. We’ve just come back from the 
barracks under safe conduct. Instead of go- 
ing all the way — ” 

' ‘ Oh, stow it ! ” grumbled the ofiScer. ‘ ‘ That’s 
a fine story, and you can tell it later on.” 

McGroarty looked at Joe. 

“God save Ireland!” said the youth, with a 
fervor which he had never manifested in prayer 
at college or high school. 

“You keep a civil tongue in your head!” 

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” returned Joe, de- 
veloping under the stress of the last two hours’ 
happenings a vein of sarcasm. “But is it un- 
civil to mention the name of God in reverence, 
and is it uncivil to pray out loud? When I 
get back to the United States — ” 

“Stop!” roared the oflScer to the chauffeur. 
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he continued, turn- 
ing to Joe. “But are you a stranger in 
Dublin?” 

“In a way, I am,” answered the youth, 


68 


ON THE RUN 


though you’ve all been training me to feel 
very much at home.” 

‘‘And are you an American?” 

“Proud of it.” 

“Perhaps,” said the officer, “there’s a mis- 
understanding. Suppose you explain,” he 
continued, addressing McGroarty. 

And McGroarty did explain, with such happy 
effect that the lorry turned backward in its 
course. The officer apologized volubly. An es- 
cort of four men conducted the two to Mc- 
Groarty’s home and bade them a polite good 
night. 

“I like Ireland,” said Joe, as the athlete 
opened his door. “It’s — it’s different.” 

The difference continued; for as Joe entered, 
a tear-stained mite of a girl sprang forward, 
leaped into his arms, and planted a resounding 
kiss upon his blushing cheek. As Joe, utterly 
disconcerted, let her down, she suddenly blushed 
herself, and ran out of the room in the ex- 
treme of confusion. 

“And now, Joe,” cried Mrs. McGroarty with 
radiant welcome, “won’t you take a cup of 
tay?” 

“I wiU,” said Joe heartily. 


CHAPTER V. 

AN IRISH BVENINO IN AN IRISH HOME. 


I N Ireland the simple expression cup of 
tea’^ covers much more than the words con- 
vey. On the present occasion it stood out for 
bread, butter, marmalade, and a dish of the 
finest strawberries that Joe had ever tasted or 
seen. 

‘^You poor boy!’^ said the sympathetic Mrs. 
McGroarty. ‘‘Sure it^s starving you must be. 
Perhaps you’d like some eggs and a rasher of 
bacon. I’ll be glad to get them for you.” 

“No, thank you, ma’am.” 

“But it would be no trouble at all. It would 
be a pleasure.” 

“I shouldn’t eat at all,” answered Joe, biting 
into his fourth piece of bread. Mr. McGroarty, 
a part of whose simple life consisted in refrain- 
ing from all talk while eating, was now well 
on with his seventh slice. 

“Great Scott!” said Joe presently as he 
helped himself to the strawberries. “These 
things must have won a prize at a fair.” 

“They’re our own, sir,” returned Mrs. Mc- 
Groarty. “They’re the kind we always have. 
Sure, i’ll pick you another dish.” 


69 


70 ON THE RUN 

objected Joe. ‘‘Enough is as good 
as a feast. 

From a door leading into an adjoining room 
the fair head of Maureen peered forth, her face 
aglow, and her shining eyes fixed in undis- 
guised admiration upon the young American. 
When Joe happened to catch the child’s gaze 
and grinned graciously, she disappeared, after 
the manner of Jack-in-the-box. 

“Won’t you have some more tay?” asked the 
hospitable woman. 

This question brought the smiling Maureen 
into the picture again. 

“Thank you, ma’am; but I’m in training — ” 
Here Joe, catching sight of Maureen, waved 
his hand at her. This brought gravity to her 
face and her finger to her mouth. Joe grinned 
amiably and the girl effaced herself once more. 
“And,” continued the boy after this bit of 
pantomime, “I don’t think much tea is good. 
Say, Mrs. McGroarty, when I was in fourth 
year high, I came upon a sentence written by an 
English bird — think his name was Doctor 
Arbuthnot. He said something like this about 
the strawberry. ‘Doubtless God could have 
naade a better berry, but doubtless God never 
did.’ Well, now I know that he had good rea- 
son for getting off that stuff.” 

Once more Maureen appeared, standing 
squarely in the doorway. Her face was set, 
there was determination on her brow. Anyone 
could see that she was going through an awful 
ordeal. With firm step she advanced towards 


AN IRISH EVENING 


71 


Joe, but when Joe raised eyes of smiling wel- 
come she turned tail and bolted incontinently 
back to her coign of vantage. 

‘‘What in the world is the matter with herT^ 
queried the mystified boy. 

For the first time since addressing himself to 
“the cup of tay” Mr. McGroarty broke into 
speech. 

“Sure, ’tis the bashfulness that’s come over 
her,” he explained, fortified by ten pieces of 
bread and a heaping dish of strawberries. 
“Our little Maureen wants to welcome you, but 
she’s that timid with strangers!” 

“You’d never dream from the way she’s 
carrying on,” put in the wife, “that she’s dead 
in love with you. She thinks that you are 
everything that America stands for.” 

At this point of the conversation Maureen 
once more came into view with a do-or-die ex- 
pression upon her lovely features. In her right 
hand, extended towards Joe, she held a base- 
ball. 

“ 6ee-rusalem ! ” bawled Joe, jumping to his 
feet. “If that isn’t my ball! Where did you 
get it?” 

Maureen, as she handed the ball to its owner, 
moved her lips. 

“What’s that?” 

Again Maureen gave a pretty exhibition of 
mouth movement. 

“Here,” said Joe, putting his ear within 
an inch of the girl’s mouth, “say that again.” 

“A woman brought it to us just after you 


72 


ON TEE RUN 


were taken away/’ whispered Maureen, as 
though she were in confession and telling some 
hideous crime. 

“A woman!” cried Joe. “And out after 
curfew ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, sir,” whispered the child. “She said 
to let you know that she was the flower woman 
you met.” 

“Holy smoke!” ejaculated the boy. 

Just then Mr. McGroarty, who had gone to 
one of the windows fronting on Gardiner Street, 
suddenly returned to the table and lowered the 
wick of the lamp till the room was almost 
shrouded in darkness. 

“Here, Joe,” he said, catching the boy’s 
hand, “come over here and look out. See that 
wall over there between the two houses? Do 
you notice anything?” 

Joe peered out into the night that still car- 
ried with it a remnant of the evening twi- 
light. Nestling against the wall was a figure — 
a woman’s figure. As he continued to gaze, 
the form moved, the face turned towards him, 
and Joe gasped. It was the flower woman! 

“Isn’t that the woman?” asked McGroarty. 

“It certainly is,” answered the boy. 

A little hand caught Joe’s right at this junc- 
ture. 

“That you, Maureen?” asked the boy kindly. 

“Joe!” whispered Maureen. 

“Yes, dear,” answered Joe, bending down 
and putting his ear at the proper distance — one 
inch. 


AN IRISH EVENING 


73 


‘‘Look at her hands, Joe.’’ 

He looked. About the right hand was a 
banduge, and in the left a pair of beads. Even 
in the dim light Joe could perceive the woman’s 
lips moving in prayer. 

“What sights we do see!” said Joe. 

“Joe!” came the whisper. 

Joe adjusted himself to hear. 

“Joe, I was bold. I am so ashamed!” 

“Bold! What are you talking about? 
You’re the most timid child I ever met.” 

“She does be referring,” explained Mrs. 
McGroarty, “to her jumping into your arms 
and kissing you when she met you first. You 
see, sir, I had told her all about you and what 
a fine boy you were. And when she saw you 
in the hands of the Black-and-Tans and carried 
away, she got it into her head that they would 
put you to death. Nothing that I could say 
could console her. Then when you came in 
alive and radiant, she simply forgot herself.” 

“She did not forget herself,” contradicted 
the boy. “It was just her big Irish heart. 
Why, it was worth my while to travel from 
Cincinnati to Dublin to get such a little friend 
as that,” and as Mr. McGroarty raised the wick 
Joe caught Maureen in his arms, swung her 
into the air, and returned the salute; where- 
upon Maureen, rosy, happy, but overcome once 
more by excessive timidity, slipped from his 
arms and would have once more dashed into 
the other room had not her father caught her 
fast. 


74 


ON THE RUN 


^‘Now, Maureen,’’ he said, ‘‘it’s far beyond 
your bedtime; but before you go suppose you 
give Joe an idea of an Irish dance.” 

“Great stuff!” bawled the boy. 

At once every trace of timidity departed 
from the child. Flushing with pleasure, she 
stepped to the largest open space in the room 
and put herself in position. 

There was a piano in the room, but it was 
not put into use. Mrs. McGroarty hummed, 
sweetly hummed “Miss McCleod’s Reel,” and 
after two bars the child, all her bashfulness 
gone, broke into a step, gay, alert, easy and 
instinct with the joyousness of the Irish dance. 
The father began beaming with pride at his 
graceful daughter, but gradually getting into 
the spirit of the movement, fell to clapping his 
huge hands rhythmically and thunderously. 
This was a cue to Joe, who forthwith set to 
beating time with hands and feet, interjecting, 
occasionally, a wild western whoop of joy. 
Maureen, inspired by these noisy and hearty 
demonstrations, put added vivacity into her 
work. There came, presently, a loud rap at 
the window ; but dancer and accompanists were 
too absorbed to give it heed. 

The tapping grew louder, more insistent, but, 
with “joy unconfined,” on went the dance. At 
length there came a mighty tap that almost 
broke the window pane. The mother ceased 
singing, the father rushed to throw back the 
shutters, Maureen stood at attention, while Joe, 
gazing curiously at McGroarty ’s movements, 


AN IRISH EVENING 75 

continued to stamp and clap his hands with the 
interjection of an occasional ecstatic howl. 

The grim face against the pane, as they all 
discovered when McGroarty moved aside the 
curtains, was the face of a Black-and-Tan. 

‘‘Good evening, sir,’’ said McGroarty pleas- 
antly as he raised the window. 

“What are you people doing T’ came the 
question of suspicion. 

“Sure, we’re enjoying a little diversion, sir.” 

“The noise that you’re making is a breech of 
the peace. Get to bed!” 

“Much obliged,” said Joe, in tones exces- 
sively sweet. “Say, who’s going to wake me 
up? I’m going to communion tomorrow?” 

“I’ll see to it,” said Maureen. 

“What’s that?” 

This time Joe found that he was able to un- 
derstand her at a range of two inches. Maureen 
was losing her timidity. 

“Sure, we’ll all see to it,” added the mother; 
“and we’ll all go to the seven-o’clock Mass 
and receive communion together.” 

Joe had a tiny room all to himself. Over 
his white-counterpaned bed was a picture of 
the Adorable Heart, and on the opposite wall 
one of Our Immaculate Lady. There was a 
lovely bunch of roses on the dresser. The room 
was exquisitely clean. On a table beside his 
bed lay, beside a student’s lamp, a small vol- 
ume. Joe took it up and glanced at the title. 
It was “The Hounds of Banba.” 

“Banba! Banba! Who was he?” mused Joe. 


76 ON THE RUN 

His meditations were broken by a light tap 
at the door. 

“Come in.’^ 

Maureen, bare of foot, and bearing in her 
hand a small bottle, presented herself. She 
smiled nervously. 

“Hello, old ladyl’^ said Joe. “What is itV^ 

For answer Maureen opened the bottle and 
generously sprinkled the bed. 

“WhaFs the ideaT’ asked Joe. 

Maureen’s lips moved. 

“Ehr’ cried the boy. And at a range of 
three inches he could hear without difficulty 
Maureen pronounce the words “Holy water.” 

“And what are you sprinkling my bed with 
it for?” 

“To keep,” whispered Maureen in a voice 
that carried almost two feet, “the Black-and- 
Tans and all other evils of soul and body from 
this room.” And with the words Maureen was 
gone. 

“There’s nothing like living in Ireland,” 
thought the youth as he went over to the win- 
dow, having first lowered the light and looked 
across at the dividing wall. The woman was 
gone. 

Then Joe knelt down and prayed — prayed as 
he had never prayed before. The soul of Ire- 
land was fighting to get into his blood. 

Too excited to sleep, he gave himself, after 
finishing his prayers, to the pages of “The 
Hounds of Banba.” 

“By George!” he exclaimed three times 


AN IRISH EVENING 


77 


while reading the first story, The Ember. It 
was a new discovery — to Joe at least. These 
Irishmen could write. They lived lives of trial, 
and with the pen reduced them to terms of 
poetry. 

Joe got ready for bed. Then, blowing out the 
light, he made for the window. The woman 
was there, still telling her beads. 

‘‘Holy smoke murmured Joe. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A WALK IN DUBLIN THAT CHANGES INTO A EUN. 


O N Friday morning, June third, Joe deter- 
mined to take a walk. 

‘‘But you ^11 be getting lost,^^ objected 
Maureen, whose voice, still soft and low, could 
now be heard if one paid due attention. 

“What’s the ditf?” Joe returned. “You can 
never really get lost anywhere if you know 
the name of the street you live on.” Joe 
paused to consider. Of a sudden his eyes lit 
up. “ By J 0 ve ! ” he exclaimed. “You haven ’ t 
anything to do, Maureen, have you?” 

“I have not, sir.” This was not strictly 
true. School was keeping that day. But what 
was school with so royal a guest in the house? 

“Suppose you come along, Maureen. I am 
naturally timid, you know, and I might get 
frightened to death if I were alone.” 

The idea of Joe’s getting frightened to death 
struck Maureen as being the funniest thing she 
had ever heard. She broke into violent 
laughter, and suddenly realizing her boldness, 
checked herself, the effort bringing on an at- 
tack of coughing which was within a little, as 
it seemed to Joe, of choking her to death. Her 
father came to her rescue and gave her a pat 


78 


A WALK IN LUBLIN 


79 


upon the back, intended, no doubt, to be gentle. 
Maureen ceased choking and proceeded to 
scream. 

‘‘You overgrown elephant said the wife. 
“Did you think you were in the prize ring?’’ 
Saying which, she caught Maureen in her arms, 
and kissing each tear-stained cheek, added: 
“You may go, Maureen, with Joe, and have a 
picnic all day. I know Sister Gabriel will be 
glad to excuse you this once; you haven’t 
missed a class day this year.” 

The eyes of Maureen, still moist with tears, 
threw out lights of joy, like the sun’s rays 
breaking through rain clouds, and she pirou- 
etted and dashed away to make herself ready 
for what she looked forward to as the red-letter 
occasion of the year. 

“Now which way shall we go?” asked the 
boy, as they walked out into Gardiner Street. 

“Sure, any way at all,” returned the radiant 
child, holding in a tight clasp her young hero’s 
hand. 

“What’s that street up there?” 

“Denmark Street, sir?” 

“I’d like to see it in broad daylight,” said 
Joe. “That’s the street, I believe, where I got 
the cop on the crazy bone.” 

“The what, sir?” 

“The policeman.” 

Maureen’s eyes flashed; she tossed her head. 
“Indeed and he was no policeman; he was a 
Black-and-Tan. ’ ’ 

“Well, I suppose, it’s all the same.” 


80 


ON TEE RUN 


‘‘Indeed it is not. The police are nice, good 
men; and we children all love them.’’ 

“How about the Black-and-Tans, Maureen?” 

“Oh, we do be trying all the time not to 
hate them.” 

Joe broke into loud laughter; but Maureen’s 
face remained grave and somewhat troubled. 

“I was almost afraid to go to communion 
this morning,” continued the child. 

“What were you afraid of?” 

“I was trying to forgive the Black-and-Tan 
who chased you last night. I said me beads 
three times and I wasn’t sure that me anger 
was all gone. Don’t you find it hard to love 
your enemies, Joe?” 

“Wh — What’s that? stammered Joe, aroused 
into a new field of thought and ethics. 

“To love people like the Black-and-Tans?” 

“I’ll tell you what,” answered Joe, after a 
thoughtful pause. “I’d dearly love to meet 
that Black-and-Tan, George Hill, who got me 
into all my trouble last night, in a quiet place 
with nobody around and no guns in sight, and 
to knock the tar out of him with bare fists. 
Then, oh, then I’d forgive him with all my 
heart!” 

“Sure, it’s joking you are,” said the scan- 
dalized girl. 

“Well, we’ll let it go at that,” answered Joe, 
who himself was unable to say in how much of 
truth and how much of exaggeration he had 
indulged. 

It was not a typical Irish day. It was bright 


A WALK IN DUBLIN 


81 


and sunny. There were few clouds in a gener- 
ally clouded sky. The clock of St. George’s in- 
dicated fifteen minutes past nine, and the 
people of Dublin were about ready to take up 
the business of the day. As they walked up 
David Street, Joe gazed with much interest at 
the signs. 

‘‘For the love o’ Mike,” he suddenly ex- 
claimed, ‘‘how do you pronounce the name on 
that sign f ’ ’ and he pointed to the unaccustomed 
word “Victualler.” 

“Vittler,. sir,” answered Maureen, wonder- 
ing whether he were still joking. 

“And what does it mean!” 

“Sure, it means a butcher, sir.” 

“Well, that’s one on me. Say, Maureen, 
how would you like an ice cream soda?” 

“I beg your pardon, sir.” 

“An ice cream soda, you know.” 

“I never heard of such a thing in all me life.” 

“You didn’t! Well, you’re going to make 
a great discovery before you are ten minutes 
older. Show me the way to a drug store.” 

“A what, sir?” 

“A drug store.” 

“What’s that, sir?” 

“Oh, I say, Maureen. Where have you been 
all your life? A place where the women go for 
lip sticks and rouge.” 

Maureen’s brows wrinkled. 

“Lip stick, lip stick,” she repeated. “Oh, 
I know. Once me father brought me to see 
Charlie Chaplin in a lip-stick comedy.” 


82 


ON THE RUN 


think you mean slapstick, Maureen. 
Say,’’ he said, addressing a jarvey, just then 
standing at rest beside his jaunting car, “could 
you tell me whereabouts there’s a drug store?” 

“I beg your pardon, sir.” 

The jarvey listened attentively. He had 
never heard of a drug store in all his life; 
but, like many an Irishman of his class, he 
never, until driven to it, admitted his ignor- 
ance on any topic. 

“We haven’t got them here since the troubles, 
sir; but I think you’ll find one in Cork. Maybe 
two of them.” 

Joe, unconvinced, moved on. 

“Doesn’t anybody ever get sick in this 
place?” he growled. 

“They do, sir,” answered the girl. 

“And have you physicians here?’^ 

“We have, sir.” 

“And when they prescribe medicine, where 
the dickens do you go to get it?” 

“To a medical hall, sir.” 

“So that’s what you call a drug store, is it? 
Come on, let’s go to a medical hall, then.” 

There was one a few doors up the street. On 
entering, Joe looked about him with interest. 

“Good morning, sir,” said a fresh-cheeked 
young woman behind the counter. “It’s very 
warm this morning.” 

“Not so that I can notice it,” answered the 
frank lad. “Why, your thermometer here says 
seventy-one degrees. You don’t call that 
warm, do you?” 


A WALK IN DUBLIN 


83 


‘‘It is pleasant weather and the sun is shin- 
ing bright, ’’ evaded the surprised young lady. 

“Where’s your soda fountain T’ pursued Joe. 

“I beg your pardon, sir.” 

“Don’t you serve ice cream soda?” 

“There’s a place on O’Connell Street, I 
think, sir, where they serve ice cream. ’ ’ 

“I didn’t say ice cream; I said ice cream 
soda.” 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” quavered the 
young woman, blushing furiously with embar- 
rassment. 

Maureen climbed on the counter, reached 
over to the fully exposed ear of the young 
woman, and whispered, “Joe is an American 
boy just over.” 

In her excitement the woman forgot her em- 
barrassment. She raised large blue eyes of 
admiration, and wonder. 

“Are you the lad that came running past 
here just after curfew last night?” 

“I was in a sort of a hurry,” answered Joe 
pleasantly. 

“My brother said you must be a great run- 
ner. And we all do be loving you for hitting 
that Black-and-Tan on the arm. It serves him 
right. You saw the news about him in the 
morning’s paper, sir?” 

“No; what?’’ 

“Look at this,” said the young woman, lay- 
ing her finger on a short article on the last page 
of a local daily. 

Joe read this : 


84 


ON THE RUN 


A BLACK-AND-TAN MYSTERIOUSLY 
ATTACKED 

Early this morning George Hill, a Black- 
and-Tan who had just distinguished him- 
self by bringing in a young American who 
failed to realize the enormity of violating 
the curfew law, was brutally assaulted by 
some person or persons unknown. It hap- 
pened just a few moments after his leaving 
the barracks at one o ’clock A. M. So seri- 
ous was the punishment inflicted on him 
that he was reduced to unconsciousness. 

At the hour of going to press he is still 
unable to talk. The attack is involved in 
mystery. 

“ Well ! ” said Joe, laying down the paper. ‘ ‘ I 
thought I had pretty rough sledding last night, 
but he got a lot more than I did. Thank you, 
ma’am. Good-by. I say, Maureen, I don’t 
believe they have ice cream soda in Ireland.” 

“If it’s snakes ye mean ” began Maureen. 

“Snakes! Not at all. Are there any fruit 
stores about?” 

“There’s one on O’Connell Street.” 

“Good! We’ll go there and try a slice of 
watermelon. Do you like watermelon?” 

“It’s teasing me ye are,” protested Maureen. 
“Indeed I’m not. Is it so very expensive? 
Is it a luxury?” 

“I never heard of a watermelon.” 

Joe whistled. “Maureen, half of your life 
has been lost. Why, it’s the flnest sort of a 


A WALK IN DUBLIN 85 

dish on a summer day. Just wait, and you’ll 
see!” 

They had now passed Temple Street, famous 
for the Church of St. George, and in a short 
time reached the next crossing. 

“Ah, here we are — O’Connell Street,” said 
Joe. 

“But we haven’t come to O’Connell Street, 
yet,” said Maureen. “Up that way it is Bles- 
sington Street ; when we come to the next turn, 
it is Frederick Street, and when we come to 
the next street, we call it Cavendish Place.” 

“But it’s all one and the same street, isn’t 
it?” 

“But we don’t call it O’Connell Street till 
we pass Cavendish Place.” 

“All right, Maureen. I guess I’ll have to get 
used to it. Come on; let’s go to that fruit 
store of yours.” 

They were soon in the heart of the ancient 
city of Dublin, a city that can show records as 
far back as twelve hundred years. O’Connell 
Street is a very wide thoroughfare. The 
houses on each side are strong and substantial, 
none of them in any wise reminding one of the 
American skyscraper. 

The sidewalks were scenes of busy life. 
There were many young men walking about — 
young men with keen, eager faces. Energy, 
earnestness, idealism, could be read in them. 
They represented the new, the renascent Ire- 
land. The street was alive with side-cars and 
every conceivable variety of vehicle that could 


86 


ON THE RUN 


be drawn by horse, or pony, or donkey. There 
were a few Fords and a rare automobile. 

^‘What I like about this town, soliloquized 
Joe, ‘‘is that an old man or an old woman can 
cross the streets without incurring the danger 
of sudden death or heart failure. I like those 
busses, too — especially the top part, where you 
can sit in the open air and enjoy the scenery. 
And nobody seems to be in a hurry.’’ 

“Why should they be?” asked Maureen, 
genuinely seeking information. 

“Why should they be?” echoed Joe. “By 
Jove, you’ve got me! I don’t know the answer 
myself. All I do know is that in the United 
States we are always in a rush. You see that 
conductor over there seeing those people get 
aboard? There are ten people, and they’re tak- 
ing their time, and he is smiling. In the U. S. A. 
the conductor would be shouting out ‘All aboard’ 
every time he got his breath. I wonder whether 
you’re not a heap more sensible than we are.” 

“My father does be saying, ‘The more haste, 
the less speed,’ ” said Maureen. “Here’s the 
place, Joe.” 

The fruiterer’s had a familiar look. There 
were oranges, and apples, and bananas looking 
as though they were wasting away in a slow 
fever, and anemic tomatoes, and debilitated 
cantaloupes, with luscious strawberries and rich 
dark cherries. There were pears and plums 
too. In fact it looked like an American fruit 
store with a washed-out appearance. But there 


A WALK IN DUBLIN 


87 


was a striking difference. Joe felt it, but could 
not localize it. 

“What would you be pleased to wish today, 
sir?’’ said a black-eyed Irish colleen, with a 
smile of welcome. 

‘^Got a slice of watermelon?” asked Joe. He 
knew the difference now. There was not an 
Italian in any way connected with the business. 

“I beg your pardon, sir.” 

‘‘A watermelon,” repeated Joe. 

^‘Excuse me,” said the colleen, retreating 
into the store, where she consulted a young 
man. He looked troubled, shook his head, and 
directed her to the bookkeeper, an old gentle- 
man^ the pen in whose hand seemed a part of 
himself. On hearing her question, he dis- 
mounted from his high stool and, putting his 
pen behind his ear, came forth. 

‘‘Good morning, sir,” he began, addressing 
Joe genially, “’tis very close this morning.” 

“Not that I know of,” returned Joe, with a 
smile. 

“You are from America, sir.” 

“How did you know that?” 

“Weren’t you asking for watermelon? No 
man in the three kingdoms would be asking for 
that. The fact is, sir, we have no watermelons 
in these parts; and many of our people haven’t 
the least idea of what a watermelon is.” 

“Oh, now I know what Maureen meant. 
Watermelons over here are about as plentiful 
as snakes.” 

“Precisely, sir.” 


88 


ON TEE RUN 


‘^All right. Maureen, do you like cherries!^’ 

Maureen blushed and smiled. They went 
forth presently biting away at their cherries 
without the least self-consciousness. 

“Halloa!’^ exclaimed Joe, as they neared 
0 ^Connell Bridge. ‘ ‘ What ’s broke loose now 1 ’ 

‘‘It^s an infantry patrol, sir,^^ said a young 
Irishman as he was passing, catching Joe’s 
question and pausing to give the information. 
“It’s one of the ways the British Government 
employs to teach us to love them. ^ You might 
be taking this street here, sir,” and the young 
man, as he spoke, motioned towards Henry 
Street. 

“Thank you, sir; hut I don’t see why?” Joe, 
as he spoke, gazed at the approaching soldiers. 
They were marching at a measured pace, twenty 
strong, separated from each other by several 
yards, and in three columns. Their officer, a 
dapper young man, was playfully twisting a 
revolver in his hand, and gazing from left to 
right with a mocking smile, as who should say, 
“Well, you dirty Irish, what are you going to 
do about it?” Each soldier carried his gun, 
not, as one would expect on his shoulders, but 
with finger on the trigger guard, and prepared 
to fire at the drop of a hat. 

“The big stiffs!” growled Joe vehemently. 

As he spoke, some one touched his elbow. He 
turned to find himself facing the flower woman. 
She raised her finger in a warning gesture. 

“Whisper,” she said with a serious face. 
Just then an undersized man with shifting eyes 


A WALK IN DUBLIN 89 

sidled towards Joe. The woman at once 
changed her attitude and tone. 

‘^Sir,’’ she said with raised voice, ‘‘a fine 
young man like you ought to wear a flower on 
a beautiful day like this. Just a penny sir, for 
the love of God and the Blessed Virgin, to get 
me a cup of tay.’’ 

J oe readily produced sixpence and was about 
to give it to her. Ignoring the money the woman 
undertook to pin a bit of heather on the lapel 
of his coat. As she proceeded to do this, Joe’s 
attention was excited by the swollen condition 
of her right hand and by the fact that, as with 
extreme awkwardness she endeavored to pin the 
heather securely, she was pushing, pushing 
until he found himself turning the corner on 
Henry Street. The shifty-eyed man was out 
of reach. 

‘‘Boy,” whispered the woman, cleverly con- 
triving to make a long business of fastening the 
heather, get up this street as fast as you can! 
There’s danger.” 

“What? A row?” whispered Joe. “I want 
to see it.” 

“Think of the little girl,” pleaded the woman. 

“What a selfish beast I am,” returned Joe. 
“Thank you, ma’am, for the warning.” 

As Joe was speaking, there rang out a com- 
mand from the dapper officer, following which 
the patrol turned from O’Connell Street and de- 
bouched into the street on which the boy was 
standing, but in the opposite direction. 

“Hurry!” urged the woman. 


90 


ON THE RUN 


Catching the wondering-eyed Maureen in a 
firmer clasp, Joe turned his face westwards. 
Coming towards him at a speed so rapid that it 
would take an expert to decide whether it were 
slow running or fast walking were three young 
men with faces unusually set and determined. 
The man in the center had his hands folded. 
The two on each side were pressing close to 
him. To Joe’s quick eye the three suggested 
a football formation — the center man carrying 
the ball and the other two acting as guards. 
Joe glanced sharply at the folded arms. He 
could almost swear that the man was carrying 
a ball. A baseball? No, it was a bomb. 
Through the crowd behind the three there burst, 
as Joe continued to gaze, a Black-and-Tan, his 
eyes fastened on the trio. He was apparently 
unarmed. 

‘ ‘ Hurry ! You ’re followed, ’ ’ came a whisper, 
intended for the three young men. Joe had 
sharp ears. 

The trio passed quickening their pace. A 
few yards behind followed the soldier of the 
king. 

^‘Come on, Maureen, we must run.” Joe, as 
he spoke, swung her vigorously into the air and 
started at a quick run, darting straight into the 
Black-and-Tan, who went to the ground as 
though he had been struck by an automobile. 

‘‘Sorry,” yelled Joe, darting forward as 
though nothing had happened. By the time the 
Black-and-Tan had religiously cursed Joe, his 
past ancestors, and his prospective descendants. 


A WALK IN DUBLIN 


91 


and risen to his feet, the young men had lost 
themselves in a crowd — a crowd, by the way, 
in which there were no old men, no women, no 
children. As the discomfited fellow, chagrined 
and furious, rubbed the grime from his face, 
there came the report of a bursting shell, fol- 
lowed at once by the cracking of many rifles. It 
was, thanks in a great measure to Joe, a bad 
morning for the Black-and-Tans ; and for the 
next three months the officer of that particular 
platoon did his smiling, when he smiled at all, 
for the benefit of five doctors and several hos- 
pital nurses. 

Maureen meanwhile was a feather in the 
hands of the young American. Joe ran for 
some distance without further blockade of any 
sort. In fact, all were running in the same di- 
rection. He paused at last at the corner of 
Dominick Street, and set Maureen upon her 
feet. 

‘‘Say, Maureen, you weren^t scared, were 
you?’’ 

“But,” objected the calm and shining-eyed 
child, “didn’t I have you with me?” 

“Holy smoke!” interpolated the boy. 

“And didn’t I make me first Friday this 
morning?” 

“Oh!” said Joe humbly. 

“And aren’t we both in the state of grace?” 

“And what were you thinking of when you 
heard all those rifle shots?” 

“I did be thinking of the way you bumped 


92 ON THE RUN 

into that Black-and-Tan. Why did you do it, 
Joe?’’ 

thought, Maureen, that he was going to 
get an Irish soldier, which would have spoiled 
the whole program. But look who comes,” he 
added dramatically. ‘^Our flower woman once 
more.” 

As the woman, walking quite rapidly, passed, 
she said in a voice clear enough to reach Joe’s 
ears: 

‘ ^ That fellow you bumped is looking for you. ’ ’ 
Not so much as turning head or eyes toward the 
youthful adventurers, the woman went up 
Dominick Street. 

‘‘Isn’t she the little stormy petrel, though!” 
remarked Joe. “Say, Maureen, which is the 
shortest way home?” 

“We might go back to O’Connell Street.” 

“But that’s the way he’ll he coming. And 
sure enough, here he comes now! You’re not 
afraid, Maureen?” 

“I am not,” said the calm young miss, whose 
voice was now normal, natural and fearless. 

“Very good, you blessed cherub; I’m going 
to face it out. Now, child, smile.” 

Looking at him fiercely, the Black-and-Tan 
came straight towards him. 

“Good morning,” cried Joe genially. “I 
want to apologize for bumping into you. You 
see, I didn’t have time. I wanted to get this 
little girl out of danger, and I couldn’t stop.” 

“You were blank, blank awkward,” said the 
soldier. 


A WALK IN DUBLIN 


93 


“Yes. My friends have often told me the 
same thing.” 

“What relation is that girl of yours?” 

“She’s my great-aunt.” 

The soldier stared at the hoy, who returned 
the slare with large, unblinking eyes. 

“And what were the two of you doing at that 
corner before you started to run?” 

“Oh, we were just out to pick a few straw- 
berries.” The soldier broke into profanity. 

“Stop!” said Joe grimly. “Are you such a 
beast as to use language like that in the pres- 
ence of a little girl?” 

“But you are lying to me!” 

“Not at all. "V^en I told you the child was 
my great-aunt and that we were out on the 
street of downtown Dublin to pick strawberries, 
it was only a nice way of telling you to mind 
your own business.” 

“You come with me,” said the soldier, lay- 
ing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. 

“Oome where? What for?” 

“You are under arrest.” 

Joe became anxious. He threw his eyes up 
Dominick Street. Some hundred yards off he 
noticed a crowd of women towards which girls 
and more women with flying hair were rushing 
from all sides. Yes, and there in the heart of 
the crowd stood, the foremost figure, Joe’s 
“Stormy Petrel.” 

“One moment, sir,” ^e said gravely. “Mau- 
reen, you go up to where that crowd is ; you’ll 


94 ON THE RUN 

find the Stormy Petrel there. She ^11 take you 
home.’’ 

will not leave you, sir,” answered Mau- 
reen, with a gaze of sweetness upon Joe, 
which as she turned her face towards the 
Black- and-Tan changed into lively contempt. 

‘‘Come on!” said the man, giving the boy a 
rude jerk. 

“What’s your hurry?” asked Joe, his face 
crimsoning with anger. 

“Come on,” repeated the fellow, emphasiz- 
ing his remark with a violent shove. 

Joe went flat to the sidewalk, where he re- 
mained. 

“Come on and take me,” he said. 

“Are you hurt, Joe?” cried Maureen, the 
tears gathering in her eyes. 

“Not so as you can notice it. I’m an 
American, sir,” he went on. 

The soldier released his hold on the boy’s 
collar, and rubbed his nose. 

“And,” continued Joe brightly, “when a cop 
in our country arrests us, he always takes us 
off in a conveyance. I’ll ride with you, but I’ll 
not walk with you. If you won’t give me a 
ride, you’ll have to carry me.” 

His majesty’s soldier scratched his head. It 
was one thing to manhandle a “dirty Irish- 
man,” another to arrest a citizen of the 
United States. 

“You’re lying again.” 

“Lying here on the sidewalk?” asked Joe. 

The pun was lost on the perplexed English- 


A WALK IN DUBLIN 


95 


man. As he paused to fathom the meaning of 
Joe’s remark, there suddenly came from up the 
street a shrill scream followed by a Babel of 
women’s voices; and as the three turned to 
look, there came dashing towards them a young 
woman with distended eyes, disheveled hair, 
followed in full chase by a mob of her own sex. 
She was running swiftly, but there were fleeter 
pursuers, two of whom, with flashing scissors, 
were upon her within a few seconds. 

‘‘Help! Murder!” she screamed. 

The soldier uttered an ejaculation. 

‘ ‘ Susie ! ” he exclaimed. 

There was a click of scissors, and a tress of 
the woman’s hair fell to the ground. 

“Stop!” bawled the Black-and-Tan, hurry- 
ing up the street. 

Without saying a word, Joe jumped to his 
feet, caught Maureen in his arms, and put off 
at full speed back to O’Connell Street. 

Maureen, glad-eyed and perched on high, 
surveyed the scene with radiant eyes. 

“Look, Joe!” she said, before they had gone 
twenty yards. “There’s a priest in a Ford 
waving to you.” 

Joe looked, and saw seated in a Ford at the 
curb Father Dalton. 

“Jump in! Quick!” said the priest. The 
next moment the party was flying homewards. 

“Joe,” said Father Dalton, “you gave me the 
impression last night that you were not par- 
ticularly Irish. ’ ’ 

“I’m Irish through and through.” 


96 


ON THE RUN 


‘‘That’s what a lot of Sinn Feiners think, 
too. Only they say you’re too reckless.” 

“Oh, it makes a fellow mad to see the way 
those Black-and-Tans carry on. ’ ’ 

“But you make them mad the way you carry 
on. Why did you hit that fellow last night on 
the crazy bone?” 

“It was a fluke,” explained Joe. 

“The whole town is talking of it. And why 
did you bump that fellow who came near arrest- 
ing you?” 

“I thought he was trying to get a friend of 
mine.” 

“A friend of yours? What do you mean?” 

“Well, a Sinn Feiner. That fellow he was 
after was a Sinn Feiner all right; and every 
Sinn Feiner is a friend of mine.” 

“If it hadn’t been for that flower 
woman ” 

“The Stormy Petrel?” 

Father Dalton broke into a laugh. “A fine 
name for her. If it had not been for her, it 
would have gone hard with you.” 

“She’s always around to help me,” admitted 
Joe. 

“It was she that staged that little scene a 
moment ago that called your captor away.” 

“You don’t say!” 

“Yes. You see, this young woman whose 
locks were bobbed — Susie McDougal is her 
name — was seen out walking yesterday with the 
soldier you so thoughtfully bumped. Irish 
women cannot tolerate that sort of thing. In- 


A WALK IN DUBLIN 


97 


dignation was smoldering. Your Stormy Petrel, 
when she saw your plight, got the women to 
organize a scissors party. It was a quick affair. 
The woman was to be allowed to run, was to 
afford her English lover a chance to recognize 
her and come to her rescue. He did, and you 
escaped.’’ 

‘‘And what do you think has happened to 
him?” asked Joe. 

“I fancy that by this time he’s on his way 
back to the barracks to get a new uniform, and 
his lady love is going about with her hair worn 
in the extreme of American fashion.” 

“It’s a great town!” cried Joe ecstatically. 

“Yes. And you’ll have to get out of it.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Joe, you are too swift for the quiet popu- 
lation of Dublin. From now on you will be 
under constant watch.” 

“Who’s going to watch me?” 

“The Black-and-Tans. They suspect you to 
be a spy or a messenger from the Irish in 
America. ’ ’ 

“Well!” 

“And you’ll be watched by the Sinn Feiners 
too.” 

“What have I done to them?” 

“They love you, and they’ll be with you, so 
far as may be, to keep you from harm.” 

“God save you, Joe!” said Maureen, 

“Tomorrow,” continued the priest, “if you’ll 
be guided by me, you’ll go to Galway.” 

“I will,” said Joe. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE STORMY PETREL IS A BUSY WOMAN. JOE 
FINDS THAT DUBLIN STREETS IN THE EVEN- 
ING ARE NOT AS PEACEFUL AS THEY LOOK. 

DO be thinking/^ observed Mr. Mc- 

A Groarty after the six-o^clock tea, “that it 
isn’t safe for you, Joe, to be going out on the 
streets of Dublin alone.” 

“WeHl, haven’t I been out several times? 
And haven’t I come back this side up with 
care?” 

“Yes, so far you have come back. But yes- 
terday morning it was your Stormy Petrel and 
Father Dalton and a number of Sinn Peiners 
who managed it for you. I suppose you do be 
thinking of walking out tonight ! ’ ’ 

“Of course I do. And Maureen wants to 
come along too.” 

“You’re not afraid to go out alone?” 

“Why should I be?” 

“And,” put in Maureen, “isn’t he in the 
state of grace?” 

The American reader may smile at Maureen’s 
ingenuous remark. But in Catholic Ireland it 
would be received with perfect gravity. At the 
very time that Maureen spoke there were any 
number of Irish soldiers of the Republic whose 
main preparation for all manner of dangers, 
that carried with them almost a certainty of 


98 


TEE STORMY PETREL 


99 


death, consisted in going to confession and re- 
ceiving Holy Commnnion. Thus prepared, 
they feared not all the might nor all the meas- 
ures of all England. 

^HVe been after thinking it over/^ continued 
the head of the house. ‘‘You^re the broth of 
a boy, Joe, and you’re very clever; but you are 
reckless. Sure, if you don’t object. I’ll go with 
you myself.” 

‘‘The very thing!” cried Joe with enthus- 
iasm. 

The three that were presently seen passing 
along Great Denmark Street could not but 
excite observation — Joe, young, fresh-colored, 
brimming over with life; John McGroarty, 
heavy, powerful, looking as though he sprang 
from a race of giants; and between them and 
holding a hand of each, little Maureen, the more 
fairylike for the contrast. 

“Sure, John McGroarty,” observed a mem- 
ber of the Dublin police force, “it’s a fine even- 
ing, thanks be to God.” 

“It is,” rumbled McGroarty, his cap well 
over his eyes. 

“But whisper,” continued the official, leading 
the athlete aside. “They do be saying the air 
just now is bad for that young American, God 
bless him!” 

“What do you mean?” asked McGroarty, 
pulling his cap down further, and projecting a 
massive chin. 

“Oh, nothing at all, at all. There do be some 
people who think that that boy will talk too 


100 ON THE RUN 

much when he goes back to America. That 
is 

Here the policeman, eyeing Joe with approv- 
ing and sympathetic eyes, paused. 

‘‘What’s that?” 

“That is — if — if he ever gets back.” 

“Stuff!” said McGroarty. “He’s an Amer- 
ican. He has powerful friends. Why, do you 
know that he’s the greatest quarterback in his 
part of the United States — the Middle West, 
they do be calling it?” 

“You don’t say!” ejaculated the officer, gaz- 
ing in vast admiration at Joe, just now engaged 
in showing Maureen how he held a baseball to 
effect the incurve. “Sure, McGroarty, you’re 
right — in a way. The crown forces won’t dare 
to lay a hand on him. But there will be an un- 
fortunate accident. And that accident may 
happen tonight!” 

Looking as though he had said too much, the 
friendly policeman, paying no attention to 
McGroarty ’s adjurations, hurried away, leav- 
ing the athlete troubled in mind, yet undaunted. 

“Suppose,” he said presently, “that we walk 
up a little distance and take a tram as far as 
Grafton Street. They do be saying that there’s 
plenty to see there before curfew. ’ ’ 

“Good!” said Joe. “And we will get on top 
and survey the town.” 

“It would be more comfortable inside,” said 
McGroarty. 

“Pshaw! You don’t call this cold, Mr. 
McGroarty. ’ ’ 


TEE STOBMY PETREL 


101 


is lovely on top/’ added Maureen. ‘‘And 
besides, daddy, you can smoke. ’ ’ 

There was a struggle in McGroarty’s thoughts 
between his caution and his bravery. 

“Eight-0!” he said after a pause. 

But Mr. McGroarty did not smoke. He saw 
J oe and Maureen up the flight of steps, and then, 
before following them, he made, somewhat to 
the astonishment and admiration of the con- 
ductor, a majestic sign of the cross. 

“Now God be between us and all harm,” 
whispered the conductor, reading in McGro- 
arty ’s troubled face the presentiment of im- 
pending calamity. 

Maureen and Joe were seated together well 
up in front. The arrangement did not please 
the man. He frowned, pulled his cap down, and 
scanned both sides of the street. As he looked, 
he gave a half-suppressed gasp. The Stormy 
Petrel was on the pavement to his right, whis- 
pering earnestly in the ear of a young Irishman 
— one of the young Irishmen, so common on the 
streets of Dublin, with a face the note of which 
was consecration. 

“Here, Maureen,” ordered the father, “you 
sit in that front seat. I want to talk with Joe.” 

Maureen obeyed wondering. It was a sac- 
rifice on her part ; but she did not pout nor give 
the faintest sign of protest. Her father’s word 
was law. 

The young man to whom the Stormy Petrel 
had spoken, after nodding his head as though 
he fully comprehended the import of her words. 


102 


ON THE RUN 


dashed into the street and unceremoniously 
leaped into a passing jaunting car. The jarvey 
turned, his mouth opened in indignation, to 
remain, on seeing his unceremonious fare, open 
in surprise. McGroarty saw the young Irish- 
man make a sign, whereupon the inhabitants of 
Dublin were treated to a rare exhibition in their 
many-centuried city — the sight of a jaunting car 
tearing down their main thoroughfare at the 
rate of something over twelve miles an hour. 

‘‘Joe,’’ said McGroarty, “suppose I take the 
outside seat?” 

Joe glanced sharply at the man. Such a re- 
quest, on the face of it, was inhospitable. Now 
McGroarty was the soul of hospitality. The 
reason for the request, then, was to be sought 
elsewhere. Despite the man’s smile there was 
anxiety on his face. 

“Ah, I see through you, Mr. McGroarty. You 
think that someone’s out to get me, don’t you? 
And you want to take the post of danger. No, 
you don’t!” 

McGroarty heaved a sigh which would have 
blown out a candle at a distance of three feet, 
and resignedly sat down beside the recalcitrant 
youth. 

“Keep your eyes open, Joe; and leave me 
to meself while I think.” 

Joe wondered, but he kept his eyes open. 
There were three people on the ’bus behind them 
— two little boys and a man, apparently their 
father. So far all was safe. Joe glanced at 
the fairly thronged sidewalk nearest him. He 


THE STORMY PETREL 


103 


started when he perceived his Stormy Petrel 
hurrying along, managing in some way or an- 
other to keep pace with the ’bns and, as she 
made her way, whispering now to one, now to 
another man of the ‘‘consecrated face/’ 

“By George!” he exclaimed, turning to Mc- 
Groarty, ‘ ‘ I believe there is something brewing. 
Did yon ” 

He paused reverently. McGroarty’s beads 
were in his hand. 

‘ ‘ Oh, I beg your pardon ! ’ ’ 

“ ’Tis all right,” said McGroarty, slipping 
his beads into his pocket. “I just wanted to 
say a decade, and I did. ’Tis a timid man I 
am, Joe.” 

Joe laughed as he looked on the “timid man,” 
whose cap, perched at a most belligerent angle, 
shadowed a pair of bushy eyebrows over bold 
eyes, leaving exposed as belligerent a jaw and 
chin as any artist could depict. The ’bus 
stopped at Abbey Street. 

‘ ‘ Look I ’ ’ said Joe in a low voice. “ If it isn’t 
our Stormy Petrel coming aboard ! Say, I be- 
lieve there is something brewing!” 

The Stormy Petrel came up briskly and 
seated herself behind Joe. 

“Good evening, sir,” she said, leaning over 
towards Joe. “Sure, you want a bit of heather.” 

It was hardly necessary for Joe to turn, as 
the woman had so adjusted herself as to have 
her face on the outer side of the ’bus flush with 
his. Joe did turn, however, and to his surprise 
saw that immediately behind her was seated a 


104 


ON THE RUN 


new fare, no other than the shifty-eyed fellow 
he had met on the eventful morning two days 
ago. 

‘‘Let me pin a bit of heather on ye, my boy,^’ 
continued the Stormy Petrel, leaning over so 
far that Joe was almost completely hidden from 
view to those on that particular side of the 
street. 

“Say, what’s up your sleeve?” remonstrated 
the boy. 

“Sure, me poor old arm,” said the Petrel. 

‘ ‘ Sit still, me boy, ’ ’ she whispered. ‘ ‘ Keep quiet 
for a few minutes. 

Joe was of two minds. Indignation surged 
within him that he should be treated as a mere 
child. Clearly, the woman was trying to shield 
him. But against this feeling there was grati- 
tude. The Stormy Petrel had saved him before. 
Were he her own child, she could hardly be more 
devoted. Still, if there was any danger, he 
wanted to face it himself. Above all things 
he would not shield himself behind a woman. 
Yes, he would nerve himself to put a stop to 
the Petrel’s present kindly offices. But how go 
about it without hurting the Petrel’s feelings? 
He turned his face to McGroarty. That gentle- 
man was peering out from under his cap with 
the unblinking gaze of an eagle. Evidently he 
was alert; his very nostrils, widely dilated, 
seemed to be scenting danger. 

Before taking action, Joe under his breath 
uttered the words he had but lately learned to 
love : “We fly to thy protection, 0 holy mother 


TEE STORMY PETREL 


105 


of God, despise not onr petitions in onr necessi- 
ties; but deliver us from all dangers, O ever 
glorious and blessed Virgin.’^ 

Then Joe pulled down his cap and was ready 
to act. But he did not. They were just come 
to O’Connell Bridge, when the Petrel was 
roughly pulled back, leaving Joe fully exposed. 
In the same moment John McGroarty seized 
Joe and bore him to the floor. In the same 
moment a rifle shot rang out; in the same mo- 
ment the gun from which the shot issued flew 
into the air and dropped from the nerveless 
hand of the man who had fired it. The aggres- 
sor, a man in plain clothes, was standing near 
the middle of the bridge. Six men had darted 
upon him as he raised his gun. One of them, 
the foremost, had struck him a paralyzing blow 
on the arm just as he released the trigger. 
There was a mob about him in a moment ; and, 
as they dispersed quietly a few seconds later, 
there was no sign of the would-be assassin ; and, 
also, there was a dazed and astonished swimmer 
in the river Liffey. 

The shifty-eyed man, meanwhile, thought it 
time to leave the ’bus. He was half-way down 
the steps when McGroarty noticed his absence. 
With flashing eyes, the athlete, in two strides 
and one jump, was upon him. 

‘‘You big brute!” he hissed. “To lay your 
hands on a woman!” The rest of the speech 
was completed in two swift gestures, each of 
which ended upon the “big brute’s” face. 

“Sure, we’ll take care of him,” said several 


106 


ON THE RUN 


men, picking up the unconscious victim of Mc- 
Groarty^s wrath. 

No doubt they did. Since then no one in 
Dublin has encountered the man of the shifty 
eyes — once a Sinn Feiner, discharged from the 
Irish army for intemperance, and, finally, a 
traitor to the sacred cause of his country. 

Mr. McGroarty remounted. All the fares on 
the upper section had disappeared, with the 
exception of Joe, who had arisen, of Maureen, 
who was brushing him otf, and of the Petrel, 
who was apparently about to depart too. 

‘‘As you pass a little beyond Trinity Col- 
lege, ’ ^ whispered the Petrel, “the ’bus will stop ; 
be down at the foot of the steps. There’ll be 
a closed car waiting. They’re off the scent now. 
Get in and go home.” 

McGroarty marshaled his two companions 
down to the platform. “Don’t say a word,” 
he whispered. 

The ’bus presently stopped midway between 
the crossings on Piaster Street. It was beyond 
Grafton Street, and possibly at that moment 
the most deserted part of the Dublin downtown 
district. Beside the ’bus a taxi was driven up. 
The door was open, and the chauffeur stood at 
attention. 

“Skip in, Joe,” ordered McGroarty, taking 
Maureen in his arms and following the quick- 
limbed boy. It was all the work of two seconds. 
The taxi, as McGroarty closed the door, was 
already making its way straight ahead. 


THE STORMY PETREL 


107 


Joe/^ said McGroarty presently, ^‘youVe a 
mark. ^ ^ 

‘‘I see,’’ said the boy, ‘‘that these fellows 
have my number. ’ ’ 

“I do be thinking,” continued McGroarty, 
“that it was a mistake that you didn’t start 
for Galway yesterday, the way Father Dalton 
said.” 

“Maybe it was,” said the boy, “but didn’t 
you get word yourself that they were watching 
for me at every railroad station in the city?” 

“True for ye, me boy; and I myself did be 
thinking that it would be better to stay. But 
I’ve changed me mind. You’ll go tomorrow.” 

“But they’ll be looking for me tomorrow as 
like as not — more likely, in fact.” 

“No matter. We’ll think up some way of 
fooling them divils. There’s one thing sure, 
though,” added McGroarty, his eyes lighting 
up, “the omadhaun who pulled the Stormy Pe- 
trel back so that that sniper could get a shot 
at ye won’t be on hand. It was two wicked 
blows I gev him, and I left him in the tender 
hands of boys whom he was trying to betray. ’ ’ 

“Were you frightened, Maureen?” asked 
Joe. 

“Sure, I was saying me prayers,” returned 
the serene child. 

“I did some praying myself,” admitted Joe. 

It was a little before nine when the taxi halted 
on Sherrard Street some twenty yards distant 
from McGroarty ’s home. 

“Slip in, the two of ye, at the back,” said 


108 


ON TEE RUN 


McGroarty. ^ ‘ I ’ll be with you in a few minutes. 
And, Joe, behave yourself. Don’t do anything 
to attract notice. I do be fearing that we’ll 
have trouble the night.” 

When Mr. McGroarty returned an hour and 
a half later to his home, the wife, the girl, and 
the boy were engaged in a game of casino, be- 
hind drawn blinds. 

‘‘Well, Joe, you are on the run.” 

“I knew that long ago,” returned Joe, throw- 
ing his cards on the table. “I wonder how that 
American policeman’s leg is getting on. Here’s 
a letter I’ve just written him, and I forgot to 
post it.” 

“Sure, I’ll take care of that,” said McGro- 
arty, slipping the envelope into his coat pocket. 
“But when I said you were on the run, I did 
not mane that. There’s a lot of them divils 
looking for you, and it won’t be safe for you to 
sleep in this house tonight.” 

“The deuce!” cried Joe, raising his voice. 
“Do you mean to say ” 

“Sh! Not so loud, me boy.” 

“Do you mean to say,” repeated Joe in a 
stage whisper, “that the Black-and-Tan ma- 
chine is out after me, an American?” 

“Yes and no, Joe. It’s this way. They dare 
not go after you officially; but they’ll be looking 
for you as individuals.” 

“Oh, I see. They’re going after me in such 
a way that whatever happens won’t seem to be 
the action of the Black-and-Tans. ’ ’ 

“That’s it. And if they can arrange it, what- 


THE STORMY PETREL 


109 


ever happened would appear to be an accident. ^ ’ 

‘‘It^s what we call a frame-up in the States.’^ 

‘^AVell, IVe been making arrangements. 
You’ll be in safe hands tonight; and tomorrow 
you’ll be on your way to some quieter part of 
Ireland, and no one the wiser. Come up to your 
room now, Joe, and we’ll go over our plans to- 
gether. Bid them good-by, me boy, for God 
knows when you’ll see them again.” 

Maureen, who had undauntedly faced danger 
with Joe, now blanched with fear. The thought 
came to her that she might never see her hero 
again. Throwing her arms about the boy’s neck, 
she wept bitterly. 

‘‘Sure, Maureen,” said the mother, “crying 
will do him no good. But you can pray for 
him.” 

“And I will,” cried Maureen, her courage 
beginning to return. 

“Now,” said McGroarty, locking himself and 
Joe within the bedroom, “we want everybody 
to know you’re in your room.” Saying which, 
he lighted the lamp and threw back the curtains 
of the window looking out on Gardiner Street. 

“Nothing like publicity sometimes,” chuckled 
the boy. “But what’s the big idea just now?” 

“The big idea,” McGroarty made answer, “is 
just this. We want them as is curious to know 
to feel sure that ye’ve gone to bed in this room. 
But in this room ye will not sleep till there be 
better times.” 

“Oh, I see.” 

“In ten minutes we’re going out. There’s an 


110 


ON THE RUN 


opening behind your bed in the wall. Ye 41 fol- 
low me, and 141 lave ye with a good, honest 
man; and all ye need do is to follow his direc- 
tions. Me boy, you have made a few enemies, 
but for every one of them divils there’s a thou- 
sand brave Irishmen, hardly one of them who 
has seen ye, who would die to save you from the 
least harm.” 

‘‘You bet I’m Irish!” said Joe. 

“And you’ve made more friends in less time 
— sure it beats all creation ! ’ ’ 

“You’re a wonderful people,” said Joe earn- 
estly. “Why, I came here a reckless fool, and 
if it hadn’t been for the watch you’ve put over 
me, I suppose I’d be a candidate for a wooden 
box and flowers and a dead march by this time.” 

“Sure, they love ye for your recklessness.” 

“And I’ll never, never forget you, John Mc- 
Groarty. “Didn’t you try just a while ago to 
stop with your own body the bullet intended 
for mine?” 

Mr. McGroarty blushed. 

“Of course, I’ve been reckless,” continued 
Joe; “but you are the last person to blame me 
for it. You are reckless yourself. In fact, if 
thinking nothing of risking life is recklessness, 
the Sinn Feiners are the most reckless body of 
men that ever shouldered musket.” 

“Thrue for ye, Joe. Now, do as I say. Close 
the one window there nearest the church tight. 
That’s it.” Here Mr. McGroarty concealed 
himself behind the dresser. “In the next place, 
stand over by the other window and take off 


THE STORMY PETREL 


111 


your coat, your vest and your tie. That^s it. 
Now them that are looking for the information 
believe that you are going to bed. Close that 
window tight. Good. Now put out the light. 

McGroarty then arose from his place of con- 
cealment. 

‘‘Put on your things again. I’ll see that 
your other clothes reach you. Give me your 
hand.” 

McGroarty, guiding the youth, pushed back 
the bed, raised a panel, and after bringing Joe 
into the secret passage, closed it again. 

“It’s very dark,” he whispered, “but I know 
every inch of the way.” 

At precisely ten minutes to ten John McGro- 
arty posted the letter. Had he read it, that 
letter would have edified him. It was addressed 
to OflScer Michael Moloney, Police Station, Cin- 
cinnati, Ohio. 

“Dear Mr. Maloney — I suppose you think I 
ought to be in jail, and I’m inclined to think 
you are right. Since getting to Ireland I have 
learned a lot — the chief thing being that I’m 
an awful fool sometimes. The day I played 
that idiotic trick on you I was all kinds of a 
fool — and then some. The last few nights I’ve 
got to thinking how maybe you have a wife and 
children, and how they must be suffering. I’m 
sorry from my heart for what I did, and I feel 
like going right back to tell you, to take my 
medicine and to do all in my power to make up 
for my cussedness. But I’m not ready to go 
back. Say, oh boy! but I do love the Sinn 


112 


ON THE RUN 


Feiners! Judging by your name, you must 
have Irish blood in you, too; and if you were 
here in my place, you wouldn^t go back either. 
Football isn’t in it with the excitement we have 
over here. Why, a Black-and-Tan tried to shoot 
me for being out after curfew and got a lick on 
the crazy bone that he won’t forget in a hurry; 
and a sniper took a shot at me which might 
have got me, only a thoughtful Sinn Feiner 
spoiled his aim with a rude jolt; and there was 
a spy trailing me just a while ago, and my friend 
John McGroarty, who is the strongest man I 
ever saw, spoiled his mug, after which a bunch 
of Sinn Feiners carried him away. And there’s 
a queer old woman — ^mighty light on her feet — 
who always bobs up when I’m in trouble, and 
I call her the Stormy Petrel. Nobody knows 
anything about her, but she seems to know a 
good deal about everybody else. Talk about 
our American detectives! Oh, boy! These 
Sinn Feiners have an organization that would 
put our best organizations to the blush. And 
they are watching me — the Sinn Feiners to 
protect, and the other bunch to get me. I have 
felt a little nervous once or twice; but would 
you come back if you were in my place? Not 
on your life ! I love Ireland ; and if I can help 
her, I’m willing to lose a leg or two. I am stay- 
ing with McGroarty, who taught me several 
wrestling tricks yesterday; and he has a sweet 
little daughter named Maureen. Yesterday she 
put me through the Irish reel. There are no 
dances like the Irish dances. But honest, officer, 


THE STORMY PETREL 


113 


almost every time I look at her it occurs to me 
that you may have a sweet little girl like her, 
and I feel like going out and kicking myself all 
around the block. 

“I suppose you are a Catholic. Well, if you 
were over here, you’d he proud of your religion. 
You ought to see St. Francis Xavier Church, 
on Gardiner Street, just a few yards from where 
I’m staying. Yesterday — Monday morning a 
week day — I went to their eleven o ’clock Mass, 
and you ought to see that church ! It was filled ; 
there were over a thousand people there. And 
you ought to see them pray ! I could hear some 
of them praying, too, though I can’t say I en- 
joyed that. 

“I hope and I pray that your leg is coming 
along nicely; and I hope you’ll forgive me; and 
if I get back, I think you’ll find that I’m not 
near so rotten as I used to be. 

‘‘Sincerely, 

“Joe Eanly.” 

Mr. McGroarty was a man of iron nerves. 
Now that Joe was safe he walked home briskly, 
humming, as he went, “The Wearing of the 
Green.” As he drew near, he observed that 
every room was lighted. 

“Ah! so they’re at it. What’s happening 
over there?” he inquired of a small crowd of 
urchins. 

There came an eager babble of replies. Out 
of the hubbub McGroarty gleaned the informa- 
tion that four men in citizen’s clothes had made 


114 


ON THE RUN 


their way into the house, and that Maureen and 
her mother had fled to a neighbor’s. 

‘‘Here, Tommy,” said McGroarty, picking 
out an intelligent boy of twelve; “run for your 
life up Dorset Street and tell Officer Flynn that 
McGroarty says his house is being robbed by 
four Sinn Feiners, and to bring on a force to 
arrest them.” 

Tommy flew, and McGroarty sauntered across 
to his home. He entered. The front room was 
vacant. He made for Joe’s room, and with a 
quick jerk threw open the door, in the same 
instant bellowing out, “Hands up!” That mag- 
nificent bellow was enough to unnerve the 
bravest. The four men, two of them kneeling, 
the other two standing about Joe Kanly’s suit- 
case, absorbed, all of them, in trying to make 
put what an American football noseguard was, 
jumped in terror, threw up their hands wildly, 
and turned around to find themselves facing a 
mass of a man with the most formidable pair 
of blackthorn sticks in his hands that they had 
ever seen. 

“If you make a move,” rumbled McGroarty, 
“it will be your last. The first one of you that 
gets out of line will be put to sleep.” 

Every man of them knew John McGroarty 
by reputation. Every man of them was armed. 
Not one dared reached for his hip pocket. 

“Who are ye?” asked McGroarty. 

“We were told to look for a boy here,” said 
one. 


THE STORMY PETREL 


115 


‘ ‘ The more fool to look for a boy who is gone. 
Who sent yoiiT^ 

We don’t know,” answered the same person. 

A light step was heard outside. 

‘‘That you, Maureen?” asked the father, his 
eyes covering the captives. 

“Yes, papa.” 

“Come in.” 

Maureen entered. 

“Don’t be afraid, Maureen. Just step up to 
the fellow nearest you, and see what you can 
get out of his hip pocket. That’s it, Maureen. 
A pistol? Hand it to me.” As John took the 
pistol, the blackthorns dropped from his hands, 
and in almost the same motion the weapon was 
cocked. 

“Now, Maureen, step outside, and when the 
police come bring them in. ’ ’ 

When presently seven policemen entered, 
McGroarty asked them to disarm his captives. 
Then he said : 

“Are ye soldiers of the Irish Eepublic?” 

“We are not,” they cried. 

“Then it’s soldiers of England ye are?” 

“We are not,” they answered sullenly. 

“Are ye spies?” 

“No,” they shouted. 

“Then, officers,” said McGroarty, turning 
smilingly to the Irish constabulary, “these fel- 
lows are housebreakers and are carrying con- 
cealed weapons. I charge ye to arrest them.” 

Almost unable to conceal their delight, the 
Dublin police took in charge and conducted 


116 


ON THE RUN 


away four men who dared not confess that they 
were Black-and-Tans. There was no love lost 
between the Dublin force and the emissaries of 
the crown. 

All Dublin rejoiced. It was ‘ ‘ one on the hated 
foe.’’ But none enjoyed the situation more 
than the Irish police themselves. The next day 
there was a ballad circulating on the streets, 
singing the cunning and bravery of John 
McGroarty. 


CHAPTEK VIII. 


INTRODUCING AN AWKWARD GIRL AND ALSO THE 
HEROINE OF THIS NARRATIVE. 


S OME twenty miles out from Dublin the train 
bound for Galway stopped at a small junc- 
tion. Father Dalton, seated in a smoking com- 
partment, gazed with interest on the scene with- 
out. So far, on this trip. Father Dalton had 
been particularly lucky. Although the other 
compartments were filled, he himself had but 
one companion. The girl facing him was a 
decided blonde, with blue eyes that reminded 
one of the skies of the Mediterranean, flaxen 
hair falling below her shoulders and confined by 
a single blue ribbon, a singularly clear complex- 
ion, and regular features. This girl, who could 
not have been more than seventeen or eighteen, 
took no interest apparently in what was going 
on about her. In her hand was a book, Mr. 
Frank Spearman’s ^‘Whispering Smith.” It 
seemed to absorb her completely. 

Father Dalton observed that the guard and 
the porters were having some difficulty in find- 
ing room for the new passengers, several of 
whom made an attempt to get into the priest’s 
compartment; but a man standing at the door 
managed in some way or another to get them 

117 


118 


ON THE RUN 


to go elsewhere. Presently all the passengers 
had been accommodated save one — a girl in her 
early teens. 

The guard, reflecting for a moment, conducted 
her to the one compartment that was not filled. 

‘‘Step in this way, Eileen,^’ he said aloud. 
“She’s all right, yer Eeverence. She’s of good 
stock,” he whispered to the priest. 

Father Dalton smilingly relieved Eileen of 
her wraps and valise, and stowed them away, 
while the reader of “Whispering Smith,” clos- 
ing her book with an inserted finger to keep the 
place where she had left off reading, gazed with 
no little interest on the new arrival. Possibly 
there was good reason for her interest. 

Eileen was a typical Irish colleen. Her hair, 
unconfined and falling straight down over her 
shoulders, was raven black ; her eyes dark, lus- 
trous, limpid pools, framed by beautifully pen- 
ciled eyelashes and delicately arched eyebrows. 
Her dark complexion was singularly clear, while 
her features were small, delicately chiseled, and 
lighted, when she smiled, by a roguish dimple 
and by a pair of teeth white as the new-fallen 
snow. 

“Thank you. Father,” said the girl, revealing 
in her smile dimple and dazzle of teeth. 

“You’re welcome, Eileen. I’m Father Dalton 
of America. What’s your last name?” 

“Desmond, Father; and I’m very lucky, I 
think, to be traveling with an American priest. 
Sure, we all love the Irish- Americans ; they’ve 
been so good to Ireland.” 


INTRODUCING THE HEROINE 119 


As Eileen finished her remarks, she suddenly 
threw her large eyes in inquiry upon the girl 
sitting at her side. The girl, thus gazed upon, 
at once became sensibly confused. She blushed, 
dropped her book, picked it up, threw it beside 
her, and looked desperately at Father Dalton. 

‘^Pardon me,’’ said the priest aifably. “I 
should have introduced you before. This young 
lady, Eileen, is Miss Eoberta McHugh.” 

‘‘How do you do. Miss McHugh?” said Eileen 
cordially, extending, as she spoke, the hand of 
welcome. 

Eoberta looked suspiciously for a moment at 
the proffered hand, then took it gingerly in her 
own as though she were touching a stick of 
dynamite, and, conscious of her awkwardness, 
blushed fiercely once more. Then, leaning over, 
she whispered into Eileen’s ear, “I’m glad to 
meet you.” 

“Miss Eoberta,” explained the priest, “has 
never traveled in these parts before; and al- 
though I have no reason to suspect her of being 
extraordinarily bashful in general, she’s timid 
at conversation.” 

The object of these remarks fidgeted, opened 
her hand satchel, took out her vanity bag, and 
gazing into its tiny mirror, became completely 
absorbed in the contemplation of her own 
beauty. 

“It’s quite warm, isn’t it?” said Eileen, 
rather puzzled by the strange manners of 
Eoberta. 

“Not that I know of,” returned the priest. 


120 


ON TEE RUN 


^‘You Irish don’t know what a wonderful cli- 
mate you’ve got. People in Ohio travel north 
in the summer hundreds of miles to get a cooler 
climate. Few of them find anything like this. 
In Cincinnati it is not uncommon for the ther- 
mometer to be between eighty and ninety de- 
grees nine or ten days in succession. ’ ’ 

•‘How do you stand it!” 

*‘Oh, we’re used to it. We go to zero in the 
winter and to a hundred degrees in the summer; 
and yet we manage to worry along somehow. 
And look at your land, ’ ’ continued Father Dal- 
ton, waving his hand towards the scenery. 
“They say there’s been a drought here; but 
your turf is as green as the heart of an emerald ; 
and all the land seems under splendid care. 
Looking out these last three-quarters of an 
hour, and seeing how orderly your farms are 
kept, how carefully your farmers watch their 
lands, how so many of your hedges are rich 
with the red of the fuchsia, I begin to realize 
how much truth there is in the line of the song 
writer to the effect that ‘Ireland is a little bit 
of heaven.’ ” 

“Sure, it’s all so different. Father, since the 
people got their own properties and the land- 
lords were thinned out. My mother says that in 
the last ten years Ireland is a nation born again 
— a new and glorious Ireland.” 

As Eileen spoke, Eoberta, letting her vanity 
case fall upon her lap, gazed at her with open 
mouth, but catching Eileen’s glance as she fin- 
ished the sentence, Eoberta closed the case. 


INTRODUCING TEE HEROINE 121 


almost with a snap, and resumed her studies in 
the hand mirror. 

‘‘I take it for granted,’^ said Father Dalton, 
resisting an inclination to laugh, ‘ ‘ that you are 
a convent-school girl. Your speech betrays 
you. ’ ’ 

Eileen, it may be stated for the reader’s bene- 
fit, had a rich alto voice, beautifully modulated, 
and a pronunciation beyond cavil. 

‘‘For the last two years. Father, I have been 
attending boarding school.” Here Eileen men- 
tioned the name of the academy and the order 
of nuns in charge. “They have been happy 
years. School was to close two weeks from 
now ; but we were all sent home for our vacation 
yesterday. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Indeed ! What happened ? ’ ’ 

“The Black-and-Tans — ” 

Eileen paused, and turned, with some sur- 
prise, her gaze upon Eoberta. That charming 
but awkward creature had suddenly broken in 
with a sound compounded of a hiss, a grunt, 
and an exclamation, suppressed in its very ut- 
terance. 

Eoberta leaned over and whispered in 
Eileen’s ear, “I beg your pardon.”^ 

“Eoberta is quite nervous,” explained Father 
Dalton, preserving a straight face. “You were 
saying something about the Black-and-Tans.” 

Eileen was still gazing at Eoberta, who more 
and more embarrassed, took out her powder 
puff and set vigorously to apply it to her face. 

“Oh, yes. Father. The Black-and-Tans are 


122 


ON TEE BUN 


beginning to swarm in the little town, and our 
superioress was informed that there might be 
an outbreak at any moment. When those men 
— those Black-and-Tans — are attacked, say by 
John Smith, they go to work and burn down 
Tom White’s house; sometimes the houses of 
ten or twelve different men who had nothing 
to do with the affair. ’ ’ 

“So I’ve noticed,” assented Father Dalton. 
“Of course in doing such things the English 
Government shows a sense of justice.” 

“I beg your pardon. Father,” broke in 
Eileen, opening scandalized eyes. 

“Oh, yes, Eileen — a sense of justice of a kind. 
The sense of justice that we find in an Arabian 
Nights’ sultan. Don’t you remember the story 
of the porter who kissed a ladyf” 

“Yes, Father.” 

“And as the caliph or sultan could not find 
that particular porter, he executed sentence on 
every porter in the city. The sense of justice 
thus shown may be primitive, but a sense of 
justice it is. By the way, have the Black-and- 
Tans ever disturbed you girls at the convent?” 

“Only once, Father. About four weeks ago 
we were celebrating Mother’s Day — the feast 
day of the superioress, you know. We had a 
great time. All of us girls were divided into 
two sides, and we played hide-and-go-seek. Our 
side won. The game was over by four in the 
afternoon. We felt very proud of our victory, 
and, the rules being relaxed for the time, we 
began to cheer and shout. You know how girls 


INTRODUCING THE HEROINE 123 


go on when they begin to cheer, Father 

“Some of them squeal like stuck pigs,” said 
Father Dalton. 

“ThaFs precisely what some of them did, the 
little ones especially. We carried it on for three 
or four minutes, I should think, perhaps longer, 
when there came a loud knocking at the convent 
gate. It sounded as though the person outside 
were trying to break through. We all became 
quiet. ‘ It ’s the Black-and-Tans, ^ said one nerv- 
ous girl. At that all the little ones huddled to- 
gether. One of the graduates, a brave girl in 
every way, took upon herself to open the gate, 
while another graduate ran off to inform the 
sisters. On opening the gate, we saw two Black- 
and-Tans, one of them perceptibly under the 
influence of liquor. The other, as the two en- 
tered, said, ‘What^s the meaning of all this 
noise ? ’ He looked very angry, and he bellowed 
out his words. The effect upon the smaller 
children was to send them running off shriek- 
ing. We explained that we had just finished a 
game, and that we were cheering in honor of 
the victory. By the time we had finished our 
explanation the mother superior was on the 
scene. ^Put these girls to bed at once,’ roared 
the leader. ‘I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, and 
if there’s any one stirring in this place, I’ll burn 
the house down.’ So we all went to bed. But 
the two did not come back, and that was the last 
of our experiences with the Black-and-Tans.” 

“I sometimes wonder,” mused Father Dalton, 
“why the English Government sent those men 


124 


ON THE RUN 


over to Ireland. If their idea was to stir up 
war and hatred, they acted wisely. But the 
English themselves state that they desire to 
get on friendly terms with the Irish. So, if we 
believe their own words, they have shown in 
sending these offscourings of the soldiers an 
idiocy which is simply monumental.^’ 

“My father tells me,” said Eileen, “that he 
knows many Englishmen and likes them. They 
are slow hut sure, and just. But when they 
touch upon the Irish question, all their sense of 
fair play and justice leaves them.” 

“I’ve been reading a series of articles in 
Blackwood’s Magazine,” said the priest, “and 
they bear out what you say. Their idea of the 
Sinn Feiners is absolutely false. One would 
think from these articles that our Sinn Feiners 
were a set of dissolute makers and drinkers of 
poteen, whereas I am convinced that never in 
the history of Europe, not even in the time of 
the Crusades, was there any army as decent, as 
brave and as temperate. Most of them are 
idealists.” 

“Father,” said Eileen, as the train began to 
slow up, “we are coming into Ballinasloe. The 
train stops for ten minutes at least. Two of my 
girl friends get off here; and I know they’d be 
delighted to meet an American priest. Would 
you mind stepping off for a minute? We might 
see them as far as the Fair Green.” 

“I’m sure Eoberta would be glad to see them, 
too. By the way, Eoberta, suppose you take 
out your mirror and look at yourself. ’ ’ 


INTRODUCING THE HEROINE 125 


If Roberta blushed, it was impossible to as- 
certain. During the conversation on the Black- 
and-Tans that young lady had grown so excited 
that she had powdered her face vigorously. She 
now looked like a typical clown, or as if some 
one had thrust her face into a barrel of flour. 

Roberta surveyed herself in the mirror and 
gasped. Leaning over, she whispered in 
Eileen’s ear: 

‘ ‘ It makes me so nervous when I hear people 
talk about the Black-and-Tans. ’ ’ Saying which, 
she proceeded to scour her face with a dainty 
lace handkerchief. 

‘‘Poor thing!” whispered the compassionate 
Eileen to the x^riest. “Isn’t it terrible to be so 
easily frightened? Roberta ought to see a 
nerve specialist.” 

“Oh, I don’t think it’s so bad as all that,” 
said the priest. “If you knew her better, you 
would discover that she’s not such a coward as 
she seems. Here, Roberta,” continued the 
Father in a raised voice, “let me arrange your 
hat for you. ’ ’ 

Roberta’s hat, rimless and somewhat military 
in design, was cocked at a rakish angle. A bit 
of chewing gunl in her mouth would have com- 
pleted the vamp-like effect. Father Dalton en- 
deavored with doubtful success to restore Ro- 
berta’s former appearance of respectability, 
while Eileen wide-eyed looked on at the awk- 
ward performance. 

“Excuse me. Father,” said Eileen, coming 
to the rescue. And as the priest cheerfully 


126 


ON THE RUN 


stood aside the convent-school girl gave the 
obstinate hat a deft tap, restoring Eoberta, now 
hotly blushing, to a presentable appearance. 

By this time the train had drawn up at the 
station ; and headed by Eileen, the three stepped 
out upon the platform. Hard upon Eileen’s ap- 
pearance there broke upon the quiet air three 
several screams of joy unconfined. Eileen’s girl 
friends had perceived her from afar, and rush- 
ing upon her, fell upon her neck and babbled 
with the exultation of a glorious reunion. 
Eileen had been separated from them for over 
one hour. It is the property of innocent adol- 
escence to be in love with love — the property 
and the danger. Then Father Dalton was intro- 
duced, while Eoberta stood apart, desirous ap- 
parently of remaining unknown. 

^^Here, Eoberta,” called Father Dalton, the 
imp of mischief in his eyes, ‘‘come and meet 
these girls.” 

The two convent-school friends of Eilen made 
joyously for Eoberta, who started back as 
though she were about to take refuge in flight. 
This brought the two girls to a pause of inde- 
cision. Eoberta, recovering herself, raised her 
hand to her unhappy hat, as though she were 
going to remove it ; but, thinking better of it at 
the last moment, contented herself with giving 
a severe military salute. 

“Is she Irish?” asked one of the discomfited 
girls. 

“She was not educated in this country,” re- 
plied the priest in an aside, “and besides she’s 


INTRODUCING THE HEROINE 127 


abnormally nervous just at present.’’ 

As if to verify his remarks, Eoberta, as the 
priest spoke, with her feet wide apart, put her 
arms akimbo and glared morosely at the gentle 
and unoffending landscape. 

After some discussion it was settled that the 
whole party should go as far as the Ballinasloe 
Fair Green, in a conveyance small in appear- 
ance but capable of carrying an incredible num- 
ber. A ‘‘governess” cart they called it. But 
when they reached that curious vehicle, Eoberta 
protested. 

“I’ll walk,” she whispered to Father Dalton. 
“I’m afraid to ride in that.” 

“What’s the matter, Eoberta?” 

Then Eoberta took Father Dalton apart and 
spoke with great determination. The priest lis- 
tened and approved. 

“Girls,” he said, “Eoberta is rather timid 
about getting into this conveyance; so she will 
follow us and rejoin me and Eileen when we get 
off at the Fair Green.” 

“Poor thing!” exclaimed Eileen to her two 
friends, “I’m so sorry for her! She’s a ner- 
vous wreck. The least thing frightens her.’’ 

Under these arrangements the expedition 
started off favorably. The mettlesome horse, 
controlled by the steady hands of the driver, 
^trotted at a fair rate of speed. To the surprise 
of the three girls in the conveyance Eoberta 
trotted too. It cost her no apparent effort to 
keep within easy hailing distance. 

“She may be a nervous wreck,” observed one 


128 


ON THE RUN 


of them, ^‘but I rather think she is quite 
strong. ’ ’ 

‘‘It is not uncommon, observed Father Dal- 
ton, “for nervous people to be very fit from 
a muscular point of view.^’ 

The conversation changed; and when one of 
the girls, particularly gifted in the way of nar- 
rative power, got to telling some extraordinary 
convent experiences, Eoberta was completely 
forgotten. They arrived in a few minutes at 
the Fair Green. 

“Halloa cried the priest, for the first time 
showing anxiety, “where is Eoberta 

The girl was nowhere to be seen. 

“Surely, nothing evil could have happened 
to her!^^ said Eileen. 

“In Ireland today,’’ returned Father Dalton 
bitterly, “anything evil could happen to anyone, 
anywhere. It’s all my fault. I should have 
kept my eyes on her. Come, Eileen, we must 
hurry back. Good-by, girls. And say a prayer 
that I may find that poor child.” And visibly 
disturbed, Father Dalton set out at such a pace 
for the station, glancing eagerly from left to 
right, that Eileen to keep up with him was com- 
pelled to trot. 

The station was closely examined, discreet 
questions were asked; the time flew by until 
there were three minutes left before the train’s 
departure. 

“Eileen, say a prayer,” entreated the priest. 
They were both silent for a time. 

There were two minutes left. 


INTRODUCING THE HEROINE 129 


‘‘I’m afraid, Eileen,” said the Father, “that 
I cannot go further with you.” 

“Is she in your charge. Father?” 

“In a way she is. I undertook to see her 
safely to the end of her trip, and I feel that 
through my own negligence I have failed.” 

There was but one minute left. 

“Well, Eileen,” said the priest as he helped 
the girl into the compartment, “I hope that we 
shall meet again. Good-by, my girl. ’ ’ 

“Good-by, Father,” said Eileen, full of sym- 
pathy for the distressed priest. 

Father Dalton picked up his suitcase, and 
with an air of dejection proceeded to leave the 
coach. At the very door he paused and dropped 
his luggage. 

“Ha!” he shouted exultantly. 

“Oh!” cried Eileen, “is Eoberta coming 
back?” 

“No,” he answered. “She will not come 
back. But I’ll not leave you yet, Eileen.” 

“But what about Roberta?” 

“I never expect to see her again,” said 
Father Dalton cheerfully. 

“Is — is she dead?” asked the shocked girl. 

“Not exactly; but it will be all right,” an- 
swered the priest. 


CHAPTER IX. 


JOE RANLY MEETS EILEEN DESMOND AND IS 
PLEASED TO RECORD HIS IMPRESSIONS. 



o return to tlie nerve-wrecked Roberta. 


A She really seemed to enjoy the trot along 
the road. Her face lost its air of dejection. 
A healthy flush returned; she breathed easily. 
But just as the group in the car turned their 
attention from her she uttered a grunt and came 
to a full stop. Her speed had started a nail 
in the shoe of her right foot. Roberta looked 
about her. A few yards back she had passed 
a narrow byway flanked on both sides by tall 
hedges. Roberta limped back and, taking an in- 
conspicuous position beside the hedge, pro- 
ceeded to remove both her shoes. They were 
dainty high-heeled affairs, new and very tight. 

Roberta, the process completed, heaved a sigh 
of relief. Looking about, she discovered a small 
stone, and using it as a hammer, pounded at 
the offending nail until she had restored it to 
its proper place and function. Nothing was 
now left but to put on the shoes and set out 
after the conveyance. But when it came to 
doing this, a hew difficulty suddenly presented 
itself — the shoes would not go on. They were 
very tight, and the tender feet of the young 


130 


JOE MEETS EILEEN DESMOND 131 


lady had swollen, slightly it is true, but enough 
to make the task extremely difficult if not im- 
possible. After attempting now to put on the 
right shoe, now the left, Eoberta petulantly 
threw both into the middle of the road. Be- 
lieved of their immediate presence, she was 
about to give herself to serious meditation on 
her predicament, when a slight noise fell upon 
her startled ears and brought her suddenly to 
her feet. She stood like a statue for several 
seconds, when, turning the corner and walking 
with a suspicion of a stagger towards her came 
a Black-and-Tan, a young fellow with thick 
lips, a nose cocked skyward at a noticeable 
angle, and a face slightly flushed with drink. 

Eoberta shrank back, forming in the act a 
sort of recess in the hedge. Holding her breath, 
she waited for the man to pass by. But he did 
not pass by. The pair of shoes attracted his 
attention. Like all his kind, he was suspicious. 
Could this be a mysterious signal? Perhaps 
it meant danger. He glanced about sharply 
from side to side till his eyes rested on the 
crouching girl. 

‘‘Halloa!’’ he called out. 

Eoberta made an awkward curtsy. 

“Are those your shoes?” 

Eoberta nodded her head. 

“What’s your name?” 

Eoberta put her Anger in her mouth. 

“Can’t you talk?” 

She shook her head. 

“Suppose you come along with me.” 


132 


ON THE RUN 


Of course the Black-and-Tan was not at all 
surprised when the very timid-looking girl, re- 
moving her finger, shook her head resolutely. 
No self-respecting girl of Irish birth would 
under any circumstances walk with ‘‘the likes 
of him.’’ 

‘ ‘ What are you doing here ? ’ ’ 

Eoberta spread her hands, the palms facing 
her interrogator. 

“If you don’t answer. I’ll arrest you.” 

The girl began to make signals with her 
fingers. 

“Come here, young woman.” 

By way of answer, Eoberta drew back. 

“Oh, you won’t! Very well; we’ll see.” 
And as he spoke he advanced towards Eoberta, 
who pointed towards her shoes. 

“Oh, you want to put on your shoes. I’ll 
bring them to you. There ! Now put them on. ’ ’ 

For five minutes Eoberta struggled vainly 
with the dainty footgear. 

“Here, let me try,” volunteered the man. 
Stooping down, he took one shoe and was about 
to try it on the girl’s foot, when she suddenly 
plucked his pistol from his holster, threw it 
over the hedge, and giving him a sharp push, 
was up and away with the fleetness of a deer. 

The astounded Black-and-Tan said a num- 
ber of unseemly things as he picked himself up 
and took after the flying girl. He had been a 
crack runner in his day, and he felt certain that, 
swift-footed though the young woman appeared 
to be, he would catch her easily within a hun- 


JOE MEETS EILEEN DESMOND 133 


dred yards. But when he had pursued her for 
fully this distance, he began to wonder. She 
was still thirty or forty feet in advance. 

‘ ‘ Stop ! ^ ’ he pulf ed. ‘ ‘ Stop or I ’ll fire ! ’ ’ 

As Eoberta had deprived him of his pistol, 
she may have discounted his threat. At any 
rate she^ continued to fly. The pursuer was 
chagrined. To be outstripped by a slip of a 
girl was unthinkable. Also, the zest of the chase 
was upon him. He began to gain. The girl was 
losing speed. In a short time he was within 
a few yards of Eoberta. The light of the con- 
queror flashed in his eyes. Another moment 
and he would be upon her. Another moment — 
and as this other moment was passing, the girl 
sudden wheeled round and, as the Black-and- 
Tan came at full speed upon her, threw herself 
straight at his knees. It was as fine a tackle as 
Joe Eanly had ever made, and brought the 
astounded man to so sudden a halt that, coupled 
with the fact that his head struck against a 
stone, he lay unconscious. 

Joe did not trouble to investigate his adver- 
sary’s condition. Throwing ofip hat and skirt 
and wig, he stood revealed a spry boy, neatly 
clad in blouse and knickerbockers, and relieved 
of the feminine garments, himself again. 

Hastily folding the garments, Joe tucked 
them under one arm and, retracing his steps, 
dashed for the station. He paused for a 
moment to conceal his feminine attire under a 
fallen log, and once more resumed his race for 
the train. 


134 


ON TEE RUN 


Luckily for Joe the station was compara- 
tively deserted, and just as the guard gave the 
signal he bounced into his compartment, where, 
throwing himself on the seat, he panted for 
several seconds. Father Dalton, his face glow- 
ing with delight, caught the boy’s hand and 
wrung it warmly, while Eileen Desmond arose 
in some alarm and stared at this unexpected 
apparition. 

‘‘Eileen, meet Joe Eanly, an American friend 
of mine. ’ ’ 

Joe grinned and, although still breathing 
heavily, managed to say, “Delighted to meet 
you again. Miss Desmond.” 

“Again?” quavered Eileen. 

“Yes. I’m Eoberta, you know.” 

It was Eileen who now blushed, while Joe, 
in answer to Father Dalton’s questions, un- 
folded to the eager audience of two his adven- 
tures and misadventure^ of the last fifteen 
minutes. 

“But why in the world didn’t you get into 
the cart with' us?” queried Eileen. 

“Well, you see, Miss Desmond, to get in I 
had to climb, and there were a lot of people 
looking on, and — and — oh, hang it ! — these 
knickerbockers might have shown and given me 
clean away. Oh, boy ! but you should have seen 
the look of that Black-and-Tan when I turned 
and tackled him. He didn’t have much time to 
figure out what I was, for his head ran against 
that stone and put him to sleep. I suppose by 
now he’s looking for his pistol.” 


JOE MEETS EILEEN BESMONB 135 


‘‘Joe, my boy,’’ said Father Dalton, endeav- 
oring with faint success to be severe, “you have 
a knack of getting into trouble. It would seem 
that you are actually looking for it. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ It was those shoes. Father. I said they were 
too tight aU along.” 

“And Eileen here thought you were a ner- 
vous wreck. She wanted me to bring you to a 
neurologist.” 

“I was never so fooled in all my life,” pro- 
tested the dark Eileen, dimpling and flushing. 
“But you were nervous — ^you know you were.” 

‘ ‘Nervous ! I should say I was. I was afraid 
of my life that you would find me out. That’s 
why I wouldn’t talk. Didn’t you suspect my 
whisper?” 

“I merely thought you were the most bash- 
ful girl for your years that I had ever met.” 

‘ ‘ Look here, Eileen. I want to tell you some- 
thing. I’ve had a good many adventures in the 
last five or six days, been having them ever 
since I struck Ireland; and I’ve been having 
trouble all along with these abominable Black- 
and-Tans. Once I was a little frightened — the 
time I saw a fellow aiming his gun at me as I 
sat on top of a bus; but the time I was most 
frightened was when I was introduced to you, 
and my fright lasted till you drove away with 
your friends.” 

^ “But you’re not afraid of me now!” 

“Oh, I’m myself now, even if I’m barefooted; 
and as Joe Eanly I’m delighted to meet you.” 


136 


ON TEE RUN 


^‘But tell me all about yourself/’ implored 
the delighted girl. 

Joe told his adventures in a few words. It 
was a most inadequate narration. Then Father 
Dalton developed the theme in such wise that 
Eileen’s views of Joe went from curiosity to 
wonder, to admiration, to hero worship. 

‘‘It will please you to know,” continued the 
priest, “that Joe’s disguise as Eoberta ceased 
to be necessary once we left Ballinasloe. And 
a mighty lucky thing it is that he had no further 
need of his skirt and wig and high-heeled 
shoes.” 

“When I tackled that fellow,” put in Joe, 
“I didn’t do a thing to that skirt. It looked 
like a banner of a hundred battles. It was no 
use wearing it any more. A blind man could 
see that I was a boy.” 

“And, Eileen,” pursued the priest, “try to 
forget us both — at least try to forget where we 
leave this train, which will slow up in a few 
minutes as a sign for both of us to get otf. 
Everything has been arranged. Joe, as you 
know, is on the run, and it will take. I’ll wager 
anything, a better police service than England 
ever had to track him up for several weeks to 
come.” 

“Anyhow,” said Joe earnestly, “I do hope, 
Eileen, I’ll meet you again.” 

“Indeed, and my hopes are the same,” said 
Eileen whole-heartedly, “and as long as you 
are on the run I’ll pray for you every day, 
morning, noon and night.” 


JOE MEETS EILEEN DESMOND 137 


‘‘No fear of your not meeting/^ commented 
the priest. “Joe is like a cat; he’s bound to 
come back. Halloa! We’re beginning to slow 
up!” 

The guard passing along the foot rail without 
glanced significantly at Father Dalton, and dis- 
appeared. 

I ‘ Good-by, Eileen. God keep you as you are, ’ ’ 
said the priest. 

“Good-by, Eileen. Here’s to our meeting 
again.” 

Before Eileen could formulate some fitting 
response to these farewell addresses. Father 
Dalton threw open the door and, followed by 
J oe, leaped from the car, now going at a speed 
of not more than four or five miles an hour. 

As the two adventurers had been in the last 
passenger compartment, their hasty departure 
was not perceived by any who might be minded 
to sound an alarm. 

There was a machine awaiting them — a ma- 
chine manned by three fully armed Sinn Fein- 
ers. In the tonneau was a new outfit of clothes 
for Joe — a pair of corduroy trousers, a sweater, 
a pair of heavy brogans, and a peaked cap. As 
they drove along a fine roadway, Joe dressed 
himself anew. The party halted beside a deep 
pool some six Irish miles from the railroad 
track, and one of the men, tying the knicker- 
bockers to a stone, threw them into the dark 
waters. 

Three hours later the boy, having taken an 
affectionate leave of Father Dalton, was seated 


138 


ON THE RUN 


in a little room of a Claddagh hut in Galway. 
The day had been a trying one, but Joe was 
not yet ready to turn into his narrow cot. 
Seated on a primitive chair, Joe, using his 
crossed knee for a desk, wrote his recollections 
of the day. 

Today,” he wrote, ‘‘I met a wonderful girl. 
She was very beautiful. But that wasnT it. 
And she was very clever. But that wasn’t it, 
either. She looked the picture of health. But 
I’ve seen good-lookers and highbrows and 
athletic girls over and over. This Eileen Des- 
mond was different. She gave me a feeling of 
reverence. That’s it. She was jolly too; but 
I felt she was the sort of girl I could look up 
to, which is not the way I feel when I meet the 
flapper sort. It made me want to be more de- 
cent. Anyhow — oh, hang it! — I met Eileen 
Desmond ; and if Ireland is a little bit of heaven, 
then she’s Ireland and then some. She goes to 
communion every day. Eeligion seems to mean 
a lot over here. If I were to tell some of my 
American pals that I met a girl whose presence 
made me feel as though I were surrounded by 
angels and saints, they’d say I had bats in 
my belfry. All the same, till I got back to my 
boy’s clothes, she frightened me more than all 
the Black-and-Tans I’ve met to date. I wish I 
knew a little more about writing poetry. If I 
did, I’d write something that would make Eud- 
yard Kipling go and buy a rope and hang him- 
self.” 

Here Joe ceased writing. Looking wildly 


JOE MEETS EILEEN DESMOND 139 


into the air, he tried to excogitate a rhyme for 
Eileen. Failing in this, he took np the word 
Desmond. There were no rhymes for either 
word. So Joe, sighing deeply, then and there 
desisted from the composition of a poem which 
would have driven Mr. Kipling to self-destruc- 
tion, and said his prayers devoutly for nearly 
three minutes. 

When he awoke at seven the next morning, 
he was still on his knees. 


CHAPTEE X. 

THE KING OF THE OLADDAGH. 


O NE day late in June, Master Joe Eanly, clad 
like a Claddagh boy, with several patches 
and more than one hole in his garments, issued 
forth from the hut where for several weeks he 
had been the beloved guest of a lone widow 
whose husband had been lost at sea and whose 
two sons had died in the great war. It was, 
for Ireland, a bright morning. The Claddagh 
houses, rude stone thatch-covered structures, 
massed together in crazy-quilt fashion, showed 
no signs of life. But on Joe’s appearance there 
suddenly came a change. Boys and girls, tat- 
terdemalions every one of them, came trooping 
out, shouting welcome to the sturdy young 
American. 

In his few weeks’ stay with them Joe had 
completely won the hearts of lads and lasses. 
He was generous and he had plenty of money, 
which he spent freely. He was an athlete, 
skilled in all manner of games. Almost at once 
he became athletic promoter and leader. Joe 
was just ; to him the children came with all their 
troubles. Best of all, since his meeting with 
Eileen Desmond, Joe’s spiritual thermometer 
had taken another jump. Every morning he 


140 


KING OF CLADDAGH 


141 


went to Mass and Holy Communion in the 
Dominican Church situated in the heart of the 
Claddagh district. 

Now the Claddagh children were innocent 
and good. Foul talk and foul language were 
unknown. They were faithful at their prayers 
and, with few exceptions, went to communion 
weekly. But when Joe gave each of them a 
medallion of the Sacred Heart to keep away 
all evils of soul and body and presented each 
of the women folk with a pair of beads, their 
admiration arose to that fine point which ex- 
presses itself in imitation. 

So when Joe on this particular morning sal- 
lied forth on his way to the church of the 
good Dominicans, from every hut issued boys 
and girls galore to accompany him — their 
king. 

As is well known, the Claddagh, a race of 
fishermen, dwelling in their own little district 
in Galway, had for centuries lived their own 
lives, made and kept their own laws under their 
own king. They were a strange, simple folk, 
so dark of complexion that there is an im- 
pression that they originally came from Spain. 
They had their own language too, the Gaelic; 
and they kept that tongue a living tongue up 
to a recent date. But Time, the destroyer, in 
these later days took away king and language. 
Nevertheless many of the old manners and 
customs remained. Their women folk — to be 
seen about the streets of Galway balancing 
on their heads a basket of fish — still dressed 


142 


ON THE RUN 


plainly. Their attire was simple to the ex- 
treme — ^with one exception. The one thing on 
which the Claddagh women stood np for the 
rights of feminine adornment was their shawl. 
No matter how plain, how poor her attire was, 
the woman of the Claddagh wore a shawl which 
was a delight to the eye. The hat was un- 
known. 

Although the kings of Claddagh were a thing 
of the past, the boys and girls were all conver- 
sant with the history of the more notable of 
these leaders. Tradition was strong amongst 
these simple fisher folk. It is not surprising, 
then, that one of the more imaginative boys, 
impressed with Joe’s liberality, skill and justice, 
one day proposed that they, the boys and girls, 
should revive in a way the old tradition and 
make Joe their king. The suggestion was re- 
ceived with acclaim, and Joe was then and there 
made king over a body of subjects to whom his 
slightest wish was law. 

Joe had now been king for two weeks. His 
reign had been marked by nothing revolution- 
ary. The spirit of opposition to the Black-and- 
Tan, a spirit fanned into fiame by the horrible 
death of Father Griffin, the most beloved man 
in Galway, he had guided into a useful channel 
by forming the boys into companies and train- 
ing them in drill, in boxing and in wrestling. 
They would have made Joe commander in chief ; 
but dreading too much authority, he had passed 
this honor to Michael, a young sailor boy who 
had spent a season in the United States. 


KING OF CLADDAGH 


143 


On the way to church, Joe, the king, and 
Michael, commander in chief of the Claddagh 
Boys’ Brigade, walked together. They were 
fast friends. Before they entered the church 
J oe recited the Our Father and the Hail Mary, 
while Michael listened attentively. 

^‘Sure, I couldn’t do better meself,” said 
Michael, speaking with the authority of a 
master. Joe had said these prayers in the 
Gaelic tongue. 

After Mass the king created a glorious sensa- 
tion by reciting aloud these prayers five times, 
being answered in the same lovely and spiritual 
tongue by all the boys and girls in attendance. 

That day, in celebration of this event, was 
made a gala day. The morning went swiftly. 
Foot races, hurdling, jumping, football, filled 
up the golden moments ; and Joe was the ^ide 
and inspirer of each undertaking. Joe, living 
simply and leading a life in the open, had 
reached a condition of health and strength far 
beyond anything he had ever achieved in his 
American periods of training. He was abso- 
lutely ‘‘fit.” He had learned to sail a boat in 
the beautiful Bay of Galway, he had become an 
expert fisherman, and no day passed without 
his giving at least half an hour to bathing in 
the salt water which was the only thing between 
him and his native land. 

That afternoon he went fishing with Michael. 
It was a glorious afternoon, and the fish were 
hungry. The two came home with fish enough 


144 ON THE RUN 

to supply all the widows and destitute in the 
district. 

There were several letters awaiting the king 
on his return. He glanced eagerly at the super- 
scriptions. There were two from his father and 
one from Gardiner Street. He opened this lat- 
ter. It was from Father Dalton. 

‘‘My Deab Joe: You will he glad to know 
that I have no heart disease. My little trip 
with you from Dublin to Galway was not with- 
out its points of humor. I certainly did enjoy 
your exhibition of how a young lady should 
carry herself; but when you disappeared, my 
heart should have stopped. I had a very bad 
five minutes. 

‘‘And when I left you in Galway, it was not 
without considerable misgivings. What I had 
seen of you up to that point had given me the 
idea that if there were any trouble pies within 
your reach you would be certain to put your 
finger in each and every one of them. Well, 
iVe been getting reports of you almost every 
day, and I can assure you they fill my heart with 
joy. Not only have you avoided trouble, but 
you have saved others from trouble. You have 
have been prudent. You have brought joy and 
happiness to all those Claddagh boys and girls. 
Strangest of all, your religion, which, if you will 
excuse me for saying it, you had hitherto worn 
as a loosely fitting garment, has become a part 
of yourself. 

“Indeed Ireland must be ‘Holy Ireland^ to 
have brought about such an unbelievable change. 


KING OF CLADDAGH 


145 


They talk of romance nowadays only to pooh- 
pooh it. Yet, as it seems to me, there is high 
romance in what yon have achieved. Yon, an 
American hoy, have come to Ireland; yon have 
taken np yonr dwelling with the simple and de- 
vont Oladdagh folk, and yon have been amongst 
them all, especially among the boys and girls, 
a missionary of the Sacred Heart and a pro- 
moter of a higher Catholic life! I really canT 
realize it. 

‘ ^ Since yonr departnre we have been continn- 
ing onr inqniries as to the whereabonts of yonr 
nncle, Bernard Daly. No one knows what has 
become of him. Jnst one week before yonr ar- 
rival he had a brnsh on a lone conntry hillside 
with three Black-and-Tans. These misgnided 
men did not know that the inoffensive man they 
came npon was the redontable Bernard Daly. 
When within speaking distance of him they 
called npon him to halt and throw np his hands. 
Bernard at the moment had both hands thrnst 
deep in his coat pockets. At the word he threw 
np both hands, one of them holding a pistol, 
which, as he raised it, went off and bronght 
down the foremost soldier walking in advance 
of the others. Bernard, as the other two an- 
swered his fire, dropped behind a tnrf embank- 
ment and picked ont a second soldier. By a 
scream of pain this man gave notice that he was 
hit. That he was not badly hnrt was made evi- 
dent by the celerity with which he tnrned tail 
and dashed off for a safer part of the Green 
Isle. The third aggressor, being no donbt a 


146 


ON . THE RUN 


man of prudence imitated his example, leaving 
the field to your uncle Bernard. 

‘^Arising quickly, giving no thought to the 
two who had fought and run away, Bernard 
hastened to the side of the prostrate Black- 
and-Tan. He was, Bernard saw* hopelessly 
wounded. 

“ ‘I^m afraid,’ said your uncle kindly, ‘that 
I have done for you. I’m sorry. I had to shoot. 
There’s a price on my life.’ 

“ ‘Do you think I am going?’ gasped the man. 

“ ‘I do. Have you any religion?’ 

“ ‘I was a Catholic — once.’ 

“ ‘Well, it’s time for you to be thinking of 
the other world. Sure, God is good. He for- 
gives for the asking.’ 

“ ‘I’m thirsty,’ said the dying soldier. 

“ ‘Wait,’ said your uncle, and off he sped 
across the mountain side. He was gone fuUy 
ten minutes, returning with a canteen of water. 
Then your uncle ministered to the soldier, re- 
ceived his dying messages for his old mother in 
England and did everything in his power to 
make the man’s last moments comfortable. 

“ ‘You had better leave me, sir; those two 
men will be back at any moment.’ 

“ ‘I’ll leave you if you’ll say an act of con- 
trition. ’ 

“ ‘I — I — forget.’ 

‘ ‘ ‘ Then repeat after me. ’ 

“Together the two recited the prayer which, 
if the heart accord with the words, will open 
heaven’s gates to the vilest sinner. 


KING OF GLADDAGH 


147 


‘‘ ‘God help you,’ said Bernard at the end, 
‘ and Mary be with yon. Perhaps you would like 
to see a priest?’ 

“ ‘I would, sir.’ 

“ ‘Then, if there’s one to be got, you’ll have 
one. Now good-by. And you will forgive me?’ 

“With an effort, purely physical, the man 
offered the hand of friendship. 

“Then your uncle sped away. He was gone 
fully an hour. They say that he ran without 
resting for six miles. Whether that be true 
or not, he returned finally in a captured lorry, 
bringing with him a priest and six armed Sinn 
Feiners. As they came near they perceived 
eight or ten Black-and-Tans grouped about the 
prostrate soldier. The sight was a transient 
one, for these soldiers of the king scattered in 
as many directions as there were soldiers and 
were seen no more. 

‘ ‘ Standing at a respectful distance, your uncle 
and the Irish soldiers remained at attention, 
while the priest, a young man, who was wanted 
by the crown because he had made such a speech 
as Patrick Henry had made for liberty, heard 
his confession, anointed him, and gave him the 
Viaticum. 

“Eepeating after the young clergyman the 
words of thanksgiving, words of peace and com- 
fort, the dying man manifested a fervor which 
brought wonder to the onlookers and edifica- 
tion. Two or three of them learned a lesson 
that it is well for all of us to learn who love 
Ireland and hate tyranny — namely, that even 


148 


ON TEE RUN 


the worst Black-and-Tan is a man for whom 
Christ died, and that even a Black-and-Tan, 
under God’s powerful grace, may yet show in 
his own person that man was created a little 
less than the angels. 

‘^When the priest ceased praying, the man 
beckoned him to stoop down, and whispered in 
his ear. 

‘Brothers,’ said the priest, ‘he wants you 
to come near.’ 

“When all had gathered about him the man 
held out his hand to Bernard Daly, who grasped 
it warmly and reverently. 

“ ‘I bear you no grudge,’ he said, in words 
that were barely distinguishable, ‘and I thank 
you from my heart for bringing me the priest.’ 

“Eeleasing his hold on Bernard’s hand, he 
attempted to sit up. But he was too weak. 
Bernard, sinking on his knees, supported the 
soldier, who, turning his eyes on the men of the 
Eepublic, with a supreme elfort said clear and 
loud: 

“ ‘God save Ireland!’ 

“ ‘Amen,’ came the fervent answer. 

“ ‘And,’ added Bernard, a break in his voice, 
‘may his soul and the souls of all the faithful 
departed rest in peace.’ For the man was dead 
in his arms. 

‘ ‘ They gave that soldier whose dying prayer 
was ‘God save Ireland’ a military burial, as 
though he were one of their own. 

“Nb doubt, my dear Joe, you are surprised 
at the minuteness in relating this incident. I 


KING OF CLADDAGH 


149 


have set it down pretty much as it was written 
by one of the men present, a Sinn Feiner, who 
got the story from Bernard and transcribed it 
at once. 

“Within twenty-four hours after the soldier ^s 
burial your uncle went off alone, refusing to 
state his destination, and has not been seen or 
heard of since. The weeks have passed by, 
and in their passing they have given rise to all 
sorts of rumors. Some claim that your uncle 
was trapped by the Black-and-Tans and put to 
death. Others that he is somewhere in the wilds 
of Connemara. Others that he has left Ireland. 
For myself, I can’t bring myself to think that 
his life has been taken. 

“And now, my dear Joe, I must bring this 
lengthy letter to a close. Maureen calls every 
day at our house, asking each time for a differ- 
ent priest, to get news of you. She prays for 
your safety daily, and so, for that matter, do 
nearly all those who have heard with delight 
of your adventures with the Black-and-Tans 
while in Dublin. They know as yet nothing of 
your brilliant career as Eoberta. That’s a 
secret between you, McGroarty, his friend, 
Eileen and myself. 

“God bless and keep you. 

“Your friend, 

“Dalton, S.J.” 

Joe laid down the letter and reflected. 

“I’d go to the ends of the earth,” he said 
internally, “to meet my uncle. I’m sure he’s 
not dead.” 


150 


ON THE RUN 


The next two letters were directed by the 
same hand — ^his father’s. Having a sense of 
method and order, Joe opened the one dated 
earlier by one day than the other. 

‘‘My r>EAE Joe: I regret very much to say 
that there is no prospect of your being able to 
return safely to Cincinnati. This morning I 
visited Officer Moloney at the General Hospital. 
He is in a very resentful mood. He says that 
he thinks you are possessed by the devil, and 
that the best way to exorcise you is to clap 
you in jail. He’s had his lawyers on the case. 
They have a warrant issued for you, and they 
are getting ready to sue me for fifteen thousand 
dollars’ damages. I talked with Moloney for 
over an hour. But my words were wasted. He 
dwelt on his home, mentioned his little daughter 
and his baby boy.” 

“Oh!” cried Joe, wincing. 

“Well, I showed him your first letter, telling 
of your arrival in Ireland. But he wouldn’t 
look at it; said the paper you had written it 
on might poison him. He was in the worst of 
humor. So I left him. 

“I am very much alarmed about you, my dear 
boy. Father Dalton has written me a letter 
concerning your early escapades, after the 
reading of which I began to think you would be 
better off and safer in the Cincinnati jail. 
While I fear to bring you back to the States, it 
strikes me that there are other places in Europe 
where you would be safer. You are entirely too 
reckless. 


KING OF CLADDAGH 


151 


‘‘Anyhow, I am thinking the matter over, and 
I expect in a few days to write to Father Dal- 
ton and a^k him to take steps to get yon out of 
Ireland with a whole skin — ^the more so as your 
uncle is on the run and you have no one to take 
care of you; and God knows that if there’s any 
boy in the three kingdoms who needs a guard it 
is yourself. 

“Somehow I infer from your letter that you 
are catching something of the religious spirit 
of Holy Ireland. I hope it’s not a passing 
’ I. Our young American men lack religion 



badly, and you yourself in the past year have 
been a shining example of that lack. Come 
back a good Catholic, a devout Catholic, and I’ll 
pay the policeman that fifteen thousand with a 
smile. It will pinch, but it will be worth while. 

‘ ‘ God bless you. Everybody in the family is 
writing to you. You’ll hear from all of us soon. 


Affectionately, 


a 


“Walter Eatstly.” 


Joe was visibly disturbed by this letter. It 
was bad enough that the policeman had become 
his foe. But the prospect of leaving Ireland 
suddenly, without seeing his uncle, the man of 
his dreams, and Eileen, the girl of his dreams, 
was appalling. As to his not being allowed to 
return to Cincinnati, that prohibition bothered 
him not at all. The football season was far off; 
there was plenty of time to arrange for his re- 
turn. Joe’s blood ran rich with the red splen- 
dor of romance. He loved adventure even 
though it were spiced with danger. 


152 


ON THE RUN 


Joe hesitated before opening his next letter. 
Perhaps it was an order to leave Ireland — 
leave the land that he loved, the hero and the 
girl he adored. Bracing himself as though he 
were waiting for the signal to carry the pig- 
skin, Joe opened the dreaded missive. 

‘‘My Deae Joe: Hurrah! It’s all right. 
Everything is settled. You may return to Cin- 
cinnati at once. The most extraordinary thing 
has come to pass. Even yet I pinch myself to 
see whether I am awake or only dreaming. It 
all happened a few minutes ago. But let me 
get down to the plain facts. 

“At ten o’clock this morning — ^hardly two 
hours ago — I received a telephone call from the 
General Hospital asking me to caU at my earli- 
est convenience on Officer Moloney. Of course 
I went at once. When I entered his room his 
leg was still cocked in the air, and he and the 
room looked just the same as they did yester- 
day, save for his face. The frown and the air 
of gloom were gone. He was all smiles. I will 
try to quote as well as my memory lets me the 
amazing conversation that took place between 
us. 

“ ‘Good morning, Mr. Eanly. You are wel- 
come. I am glad to see you. I want to apolo- 
gize,’ he went on as he shook my hand, ‘for my 
rudeness yesterday. I think it was the cabbage. ’ 

“ ‘The cabbage!’ I gasped. 

“ ‘Yes, I took too much of it. Been eating 
hearty for all these weeks without exercise, and 
cabbage every day.’ 


KING OF CLADDAGH 153 

‘But surely/ I said, ‘the authorities here 
should give you a lighter diet. I’ll see to ’ 

“ ‘Don’t blame them as is in power here. 
They have been very good to me. It was be- 
cause I asked for it that they gave me cabbage 
and pork so often. Anyhow, the doctor has 
ordered me to change my diet. My stomach 
was very bad yesterday; and it was the bad 
temper of it that made me so rude.’ 

“ ‘I’m very glad,’ I said, ‘to make friends 
with you, officer, for I realize how badly my boy 
acted — ^ — ’ 

“ ‘Sure,’ broke in Officer Maloney, with a 
large gesture, ‘it was only a boy’s prank.’ 

“Joe, my boy, upon my word, when he said 
that I gasped and became speechless. 

“ ‘Your boy,’ went on that astounding police- 
man, ‘is the most wonderful quarterback in the 
Middle West.’ 

“ ‘They say so,’ I managed to say. 

“ ‘And it’s my opinion,’ he went on, ‘that 
there’s no better, east or west, or north or south. 
I’ve known Joe since he was a little fellow, and 
I’ve always liked him.’ 

“Gosh!” exploded Joe, laying down the let- 
ter and jumping into the air, with heels clicking 
thrice before they rested again on the floor. 

“Did you be wanting anything, Joe, me boy?” 
said the widow, opening the door and gazing on 
the madcap with fond inquiry. 

“Nothing special just now, ma’am. In fact 
the only thing I want is the earth.” 


154 


ON THE RUN 


The old woman retired chuckling, and J oe re- 
sumed the letter. 

‘^When I got my breath after absorbing this 
statement, I said: ‘Why, officer, I hadn’t the 
least idea that you liked my boy. He himself 
thinks you don’t care particularly for him.’ 

“ ‘Let me explain,’ said the policeman ear- 
nestly. ‘We always did have our little tiffs, and 
perhaps I was a little hard on the boy. Sure, 
nearly all of us by the time we’re married for- 
get that we were boys once. And do you know, 
Mr. Eanly, I did use to think that I did not like 
your boy. But now I know that deep down in 
my heart I actually loved him.’ 

“I asked him how he found it out, and he 
told me. Then he said that his lawyers had 
been to see him at nine o ’clock to arrange some 
date for entering a suit for damages. 

“ ‘And,’ said the officer piously, ‘I told them 
to go to hell.’ 

“Joe, when he said that I nearly exploded. 
He said it with such unction. The words, as 
they stand, may sound profane, but there was 
no intent of profanity — far from it — as he ut- 
tered them. 

“Well, everything is settled. Officer Maloney 
says that he’ll be grateful if I pay him a few 
hundred dollars, just the actual expenses inci- 
dental to his broken leg, and not a cent more. 
And, oh Joe ! Joe ! He told me to send you his 
love ! ’ ’ 

Joe sat down and whistled the “Irish 
Washerwoman.” Eising, he whistled it a sec- 


KING OF CLADDAGH 


155 


ond time, jigging as he whistled. The boy was 
now a skilled Gaelic dancer. 

^‘Talk of miracles r’ he mused, picking up the 
amazing letter once more. ‘‘What in the world 
happened to Officer Maloney over night? And 
why doesn’t dad tell me what the officer told 
him in explanation of the sudden change?” 

Perhaps the best thing would be to read on. 
So Joe read on. 

“And now, my boy, you can come home at 
once.” 

“Oh, can I?” mused Joe. “They are still 
laying for me.” 

“Be sure, my boy, to take the first boat. You 
have no idea how I have worried about you. 
You’re such a harum-scarum that you are 
bound to get into trouble. Cable me as to the 
time of your sailing. The family ask me to send 
you bushels of love. Good-by. Don’t fail to 
turn this page over and read the postscript. 
Men may sometimes do what women always do. 

“Affectionately, 

“Waltee Ranly.” 

“P. S. — Officer Maloney got your wonderful 
letter last night. If he were able he’d go over 
to join you. He tells me that he’s sent for the 
priest and is coming back to the practice of the 
religion he has neglected for seven years. After 
rea&ng your letter he came to the conclusion 
that every Irish Catholic who loves Ireland 
ought to be as good as the men in the Irish army. 
Joe, I could hug you. Hurry on; we’re all 
awaiting you. — ^W. R.” 


156 


ON TEE RUN 


Joe chuckled and grinned and whooped over 
this postscript. He was filled with joy and 
thankful to God. But to go home by the first 
boat! Was it practicable? Only the week be- 
fore he had received information that the enemy 
was still watching for him. Before venturing 
to Dublin he would write. To tell the truth, 
Master Joe cherished the secret hope that he 
would be advised to remain where he was. He 
wanted, before leaving Ireland, to see his uncle, 
to speak with Eileen Desmond. It was, then, 
purely through a sense of duty that he sat down 
and, putting one knee over the other by way of 
a desk, wrote a letter to Father Dalton, stating 
the substance of his father’s missive and asking 
what he should do. 

He had hardly closed and stamped the en- 
velope when he heard a voice without — strange 
yet familiar. 

Cautiously Joe peeped out of the window. 
He gasped. Standing at the door of the cabin, 
conversing with the good widow, was his old 
friend, the flower woman. 

‘‘One hundred to one,” he muttered, ‘‘that 
I don’t go back by the next boat.” 

Joe left his room and was at once greeted 
by the Stormy Petrel. 

“Sure, there’s the sort of boy who’ll be a 
soldier of the Irish Eepublic some day. Let me 
pin a bunch of heather on you, king of the Clad- 
dagh boys and girls. Sure, the children have 
been telling me all about you.” 

J oe, adopting her cue, made no sign of having 


KING OF CLADDAGH 


157 


met her before. Going to the door, he allowed 
her to fumble at the lapel of his coat 

‘‘God save ye, your Highness,’’ she said. 
“But would ye mind stepping out into the light? 
Me eyes are bad.” 

When they had gone a few yards from the 
cottage, the woman whispered: 

“Go at once into the hills of Connemara. 
Don’t return to that cottage. Walk out briskly 
past the Jesuit College on the way to Salthills. 
When you hear three owl-hoots this side the 
bathing place for women, stop and wait till a 
man comes up and says, ‘God save and bless 
Ireland.’ Do as he tells you. Don’t go back.” 

The flower woman then hurried away. Joe 
mused for a moment. 

“Oh, Mrs. Callahan!” he called out. 

The widow showed herself at the door. 

“I’m going to post this letter,” said Joe. 
“Good-by!” 

“Good-by, and God bless you.” 

They saw each other no more. An hour or 
so later, when Joe, having met the man with 
the countersign and mounted a horse and 
driven away, a platoon of auxiliaries sur- 
rounded a score of houses in the Claddagh dis- 
trict, among which was the widow’s. The 
Claddagh was explored from one end to the 
other. But Joe was not found. He had gone 
oif to post a letter. 


CHAPTER XI. 


JOE RANLY MEETS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE IN 
THE HILLS OF CONNEMARA. 

HE hills of Connemara have a sort of Gothic 



X beauty. Rock-ribbed, treeless, severe, they 
rise typifying the spirit of unconquerable Ire- 
land. Between these hills lie lovely pools and 
lakes, with here and there interlacing them 
narrow roads, hard as granite. 

Crouched beside one of these roads, in a 
clump of bushes, one evening late in June, Joe 
Ranly scanned the road narrowly with a field 
glass. It was deserted. Bare hills on all sides 
framed lakes and valleys which, so far as the 
eye could see, were without sign of human habi- 
tation or occupant. Neither boat on the many 
waters nor vehicle of any sort was there to vary 
the wild beauty of the scene. Nevertheless Joe 
scanned the approaches on every side. It was 
evident, could anyone have seen him just then, 
that he was not studying the beauties of nature. 
The minutes passed into the quarters, but Joe 
never relaxed for one moment. At last his at- 
tention became fixed. Far otf, coming from the 
direction of the town of Galway, he saw a speck, 
a blur, and after two minutes a vehicle. It was 


158 


THE HILLS OF CONNEMARA 159 


coming towards him. Joe studied the approach- 
ing object with intensity. 

‘‘A FordJ’ he said to himself. “Well, it’s 
not a lorry, anyhow. And there are three men, 
a woman and a child in it. ’ ’ 

When the Ford, going at a speed which would 
have filled the inventor with pride, was within 
a hundred yards of him, Joe stepped into the 
roadway and held up his hands after the man- 
ner of a traffic policeman. 

“Good evening,” cried the chauffeur, suc- 
ceeding in bringing his machine to a stand 
within a few feet of the boy. “Is there anything 
wrong?” 

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” re- 
turned Joe. “No, there’s nothing exactly 
wrong. But traveling on this road is not 
healthy this evening.” 

“What’s the matter?” asked the chauffeur. 

‘ ‘ The matter is that you had better turn back 
and get off this road at the first turn.” 

“My son,” said one of the passengers, “we 
appreciate your advice, and I think we under- 
stand. The way I figure it out is this: You 
expect a visit hereabouts from the soldiers of 
the crown, and you don’t want us to get mixed 
up in the business.” 

^‘You may have it so if you like,” said Joe, 
smiling. 

“Very well,” continued the man. “Now in 
warning us you take it for granted that we are 
friends of the Irish cause. As a matter of fact 
we are. But how could you know that?” 


160 


ON THE RUN 


‘‘I don’t know it, sir.” 

‘‘Bnt don’t yon see that we might go back 
and warn the soldiers ? ’ ’ 

‘‘Sure,” said Joe, who was falling gradually 
into the Irish forms of conversation, “and if 
you did warn them, we should all be pleased, 
provided it kept them away.” 

“What’s that?” asked the amazed man. 

“We’re not looking for bloodshed,” said Joe. 

The party, one and all, thanked the boy and 
turned back, leaving Joe to the majestic twi- 
light silences of the Connemara hills. 

More than an hour passed before Joe’s 
watchings were rewarded. Then he saw, afar 
off, three specks, three black dots, three ve- 
hicles, three lorries. 

“So there ’re coming, sure enough!” 

Joe whipped off his coat and vest, swiftly 
wrapped them about his field glasses, and plac- 
ing them in a hiding place which he had previ- 
ously arranged, darted off at breakneck speed, 
getting away at once from the road, and pur- 
suing a path, a short cut, that led to a small 
rustic bridge something over one Irish mile 
beyond. 

Many and many a dash had Joe made, every 
step accentuated by the cheers of enthusiastic 
football lovers. But none of his American ad- 
mirers had ever seen anything like his present 
burst of speed — a speed that he maintained for 
over five minutes. It was evident that Joe had 
studied this route, for he picked his way with- 
out pausing, among bowlders, briers, jagged 


TEE HILLS OF CONNEMARA 161 


rocks, and dangerous gullies. Once that he felt 
sure he was beyond observation of anyone com- 
ing along the road from Galway he relaxed his 
speed. Even so he was making time which 
under different circumstances would have estab- 
lished, for one of his years, a new record for 
long-distance running. 

Very few minutes had passed before he was 
in sight of the road once more and the bridge 
that spanned it. There was not much left of 
that bridge. No vehicle could cross it. Joe 
paused and gave a very fair imitation of a crow 
attempting to sing. At the sound there arose 
from behind rock and bush and ditch a score 
or more of men, each one carrying a gun. 

Joe raised his hand three times, and presto 
there was nothing on rock or hill or wayside 
to indicate the presence of a human being. 

These men were all stationed on the further 
side of the ruined bridge. Making his way 
down a deep ravine, taking a flying jump over 
the tiny creek below, Joe climbed the other side 
and sped over to a clump of bushes. Screened 
there he found three Sinn Feiners — one of them. 
Lieutenant Michael O’Callaghan, the acting 
leader. 

‘‘So there are three lorries, Joe,” said the 
lieutenant. 

“Yes, lieutenant; and I sighted them long 
enough to see that they were all well filled. I 
fancy that there are from twelve to fifteen in 
each. ’ ’ 

“How long ago since you sighted them?” 


162 


ON THE RUN 


‘‘Oh, about six or seven minutes ago. Do 
they think they ^11 get you, lieutenant T’ 

The lieutenant smiled — a mirthless smile. 

“I^m not worrying about that, my boy. What 
does worry me, though, is that we may have 
to kill three or four of them. And tomorrow 
or the next day word will get into all the news- 
papers of the world that three lorries of Black- 
and-Tans were ambushed by Irish rebels and 
four of his majesty’s soldiers were ruthlessly 
shot down. But not one paper will state that 
these three lorries carried armed soldiers who 
had deliberately come out to capture Lieutenant 
O’Callaghan, a man who never used a gun or 
harmed a human being till he was forced to 
go on the run because he stated in a public 
speech that Ireland asked only justice and that 
justice in her case meant self-government.” 

“If things go on this way,” said Joe, “it will 
soon be a crime to say that two and two make 
four.” 

“If the outside world only knew the facts I” 
sighed the lieutenant. “One of these facts is 
this, that ever since the Black-and-Tans were 
sent over here to cement the ties of love between 
England and Ireland these soldiers of the crown 
have by preference picked out, not the armed 
Irish soldier, but the Irish patriot who went 
unarmed.” 

“You don’t say,” said Joe. 

“Yes. And there’s a reason. When the 
Black-and-Tans go after, say, an Irish profes- 
sor — a man who thinks and voices his thought 


THE HILLS OF CONNEMARA 163 


— they can get him safely with three men. But 
when they want to capture a soldier of the Re- 
public, an armed man, nothing less will do than 
three lorries.’’ 

‘‘Lieutenant,” said Joe, “I thought you had 
been a soldier all along.” 

‘ ‘ Far from it. Up to a few months ago I was 
a professor of the Gaelic tongue in Dublin. 
One night, at a public meeting, I made a speech, 
I pleaded for liberty. Next day I was advised 
to leave Dublin. I went to my home, and two 
nights later three Black-and-Tans called for me. 
As they came in the front door I went out the 
back. I was a marked man. For months past the 
wild hillside has been my home. On the same 
night that these men called for me they called 
for a neighbor and friend. He had no time to 
escape. They asked him, guns in their hands, 
to come along with them. Next day his body, 
riddled with bullets, was found half a mile up 
the road. And now I sleep armed and go about 
armed. I stand for thousands of peace-loving 
Irishmen. Today they carry the pistols and 
guns forced upon them by the English Govern- 
ment. ’ ’ 

“Listen!” said the sharp-eared Joe. 

All became silent. Through the quiet air 
came a subdued humming. 

“Look!” said the sharp-eyed boy. 

The lorries in the distance were barely dis- 
tinguishable. 

“Here, Joe,” said Lieutenant O’Callaghan, 
“we’ve fixed a place for you behind this rock. 


164 


ON TEE RUN 


Be careful, now, not to expose your person. 
I don’t think there will be any danger, but I 
have strict orders to keep you out of the fight — 
should there be a fight.” 

‘/But what am I to do?” 

‘ ‘ Say your beads. Every one of us here has 
done that already. Kemember, men,” he con- 
tinued, “don’t fire unless it be necessary, and if 
you must shoot, try to avoid killing. ’ ’ 

The lorries by this time were drawing near 
the bridge, some distance from which, as the 
Irish watchers expected, the armed machines 
came to a stop. 

Three Black-and-Tans, one of them a deputy 
inspector, got out, and made an examination. 
A glance of the eye was enough to convince 
them that no lorry could possibly cross. The 
three, crouching low, with guns held ready to 
fire, went out upon the bridge. The district 
inspector looked about intently. 

Joe could hear his heart beating, not with 
fear, but excitement and apprehension. Would 
these three men venture to cross the bridge? 
If they did, there would be an encounter. 

The district inspector, satisfied that no one 
of the enemy was to be seen, turned and made 
a signal to his men. Seven additional Black- 
and-Tans descended from the foremost lorry, 
and with guns ready aligned themselves behind 
the bridge. There was still left on that ruined 
structure a passageway on each side large 
enough for human beings to cross single file. 

Followed by his two companions the district 


TEE HILLS OF CONNEMARA 165 


inspector crossed. As Ms foot touched ground 
on the other side a shot rang out. The inspec- 
tor's rifle fell from his limp and powerless hand 
to the ground. Even as it fell the soldier be- 
hind him took the same step. A second shot 
rang out, and the man dropped with a bullet 
in the calf of his leg. In falling he managed to 
get back on the bridge, whither he had been 
preceded by the leader. 

After a moment’s thought the inspector sig- 
nalled for the seven men to take their places on 
the bridge. As these men set about obeying, 
O’Callaghan put a whistle to his mouth and 
blew. The shrill sound was still echoing be- 
tween the hills when there rang out almost 
simultaneously a volley of shots, evidently fired 
into the air to warn the soldiers of the crown 
that any advance would be perilous. The seven 
Black-and-Tans were wise enough to accept the 
warning at once and without waiting for advice. 
They scuttled from that bridge with a celerity 
wonderful under the circumstances, and once 
on firm ground threw themselves flat on their 
faces. 

The district inspector, his right arm still 
hanging limp, gave the order for all to retire. 
The one virtue which the Black-and-Tans main- 
tained during their inglorious occupation of 
Ireland was prudence. Nearly all of them who 
survived were men of the caliber who lived to 
fight another day. Within five minutes the lor- 
ries were three specks in the golden afterglow 
of the west. 


166 


ON THE RUN 


‘‘ Well, thank God,^’ said 0 ^Callaghan, shak- 
ing Joe^s hand warmly, “we sent them all home 
alive. Tomorrow or the next day here^s what 
yon ^11 find in the papers. ‘A lorry not three, 
mind yon — ‘containing twelve soldiers of the 
crown were set npon by a battalion of Irish 
soldiers in the monntains of Connemara. After 
a brave resistance in which the depnty inspector 
was shot in the arm and another soldier was 
wonnded in the calf of the leg, the Irish soldiers 
disappeared. How many of their men were 
killed or wonnded is nnknown.’ That’s the sort 
of information the world gets of onr doings.” 

Here the lientenant blew his whistle three 
times and stepped into the open. Forth from 
bnsh and rocks and gnlly came some twenty 
armed men and gathered aronnd him. These 
men were with bnt two exceptions yonng men, 
men with nnflinching and idealistic faces, men 
whose very appearance proclaimed that they 
represented the new patriotism — a patriotism 
engendered by the Gaelic revival and the old 
faith. 

“Boys,” said O’Callaghan, “I want to thank 
you and to congratulate you. Without loss of 
life — ^almost, I might say, without loss of blood 
— ^we have won a victory. We have sent back 
three lorries of English soldiers to Galway 
balked and defeated. As you know, they came 
to capture me. Had they succeeded, they were 
to go further into the hills and capture several 
other men. In some way or other they found 


THE HILLS OF CONNEMARA 167 

out a number of our best biding places in the 
bills.” 

‘‘Were we betrayed?” asked one of tbe men. 

“I tbink not. But one man, a disgrace to 
tbe Sinn Feiners — ^1^11 not name bim — ^was in 
Galway last week and was seen drinking. That 
man is no longer of our army. It is suspected 
that while in bis cups be talked too loud. Well, 
be that as it may, all danger is over and I bave 
reast)n to bope will not arise again. ’ ^ 

A murmur of astonishment was beard. 

“Boys, you know that I gave you strict in- 
junctions to avoid if possible the taking of 
human life. You wondered. Well, there’s 
peace in tbe air, and tbe bope of peace for Ire- 
land.” 

A great cheer arose. 

“I can’t speak out plainly yet, but pray, pray, 
and who knows but tbe day may soon come when 
each and every one of us may sleep in the only 
place an Irish patriot dare not sleep — in bis 
own home.” 

There came a lustier cheer. Tbe men shook 
one another’s bands. Into tbe eyes of many 
came tbe pure love light enkindled by tbe 
thought of waiting wife and smiling babe and 
glowing home fire. Several of tbe men bad 
been on tbe run — ^away from hearth and home 
— for fifteen or sixteen months. 

Then Lieutenant 0 ’Callaghan called for spe- 
cial messengers. There were five particular 
places on the mountain side to be reached that 
night. Joe wanted to undertake every one of 


168 


ON THE RUN 


them. But the lieutenant demurred to his act- 
ing at all. Joe was insistent ; he knew the moun- 
tain sides, he had studied them, he needed 
exercise, running was his long suit, and above 
all he wanted to do something for dear Old Ire- 
land. There was no denying the boy. 

‘‘Well, Joe,^^ said O’Callaghan when he had 
despatched four men with their cheering mes- 
sages, “I doubt whether I ought to do it, but 
I’ll let you go on condition that you have a 
companion. ’ ’ 

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Joe. “I like 
company. ’ ’ 

“I’m sending with you Terence Mulry, as 
good a man as ever shouldered a gun for Ire- 
land. He’s prudent and brave, and I’m sure 
you will be safe in his company.” 

“Hurrah!” said Joe. “Terence, you can 
sing Homer to me on the way.” 

Terence Mulry was a professor of Greek in 
one of the great Irish universities. Three 
months before he was to have been married to 
the girl of his heart. Eeturning, as he fondly 
supposed, from his last visit to her previous to 
their marriage, he had met a group of auxil- 
iaries who were torturing a boy of fifteen be- 
cause he would not tell the whereabouts of his 
brother who was wanted. 

Terence, who had thus far during these 
troublous days kept a civil tongue in his head, 
could contain himself no longer. 

“You dirty cowards!” he roared out. 

The astonished soldiers of. his majesty left 


TEE HILLS OF CONNEMARA 169 


off beating the boy, who promptly slipped away. 

‘‘Yon call yonrselves soldiers. Yon are the 
scnm of the earth. When yon people get to 
yonr proper home, which is hell, the other peo- 
ple there will object to staying with yon. Are 
yon so mad as to think that any Irish boy wonld 
tell yon where to go and shoot his own 
brother 

A crowd, attracted by Terence’s voice had 
gathered — a dangerons crowd. The anxiliaries, 
tanght by bitter experience, knew an Irish Ke- 
pnblican soldier when they saw one. The spirit 
of the crowd was ominons. Had the anxiliaries 
followed their natnral inclinations, they wonld 
have taken a walk with Terence ont of town 
and left him on some lonely roadside riddled 
with bnllets. Bnt their one virtne asserted it- 
self — prndence. They slnnk away. The next 
night, however, as Terence had expected, there 
was a patrol stationed abont his honse. All his 
belongings were ransacked, all his papers care- 
fnlly scrntinized, and he himself was songht for 
dnring the long honrs of the night — ^he who, 
anticipating all this, was safe and homeless and 
taking his first lessons in the art of loading and 
shooting a gun in the hills of Connemara. From 
that day to the present moment he saw his 
fiancee no more — ^his fiancee who morning, noon 
and night was to be seen before the figure of the 
Agonizing Christ at St. Xavier Church, pray- 
ing in her own agony that God might spare her 
betrothed, and bring him back safe once more. 

Lieutenant O’Callaghan gave the two messen- 


170 


ON THE RUN 


gers minute instructions. They were to repair 
to a certain dugout on a hillside six miles away 
where twenty men on the run sought shelter 
each night, and informed them to avoid all 
brushes with the Black- and-Tans, and if such 
encounters should be forced upon them, to be 
careful, were it possible, not to take life. The 
messengers were to add that there was a pros- 
pect of peace with liberty, and they were to 
exhort all to pray for such a happy outcome. 

Joe and Terence were off at once at a smart 
jog-trot. It required little to put Joe in the 
best of spirits. The news was glorious. He 
could and did jump for joy. As for his com- 
panion, Terence Mulry, he was in a state that 
bordered on ecstasy. During his three months 
of exile he had made little of sleeping chilled 
and unprotected on the bleak hillside; little of 
coarse food, when he could get it ; little of going 
without food occasionally for as much as twen- 
ty-four hours. Terence had faced danger 
intrepidly. But the one thing that bit into his 
soul had been homesickness. There were nights 
when for thinking of home and of the girl of 
his choice he could not sleep. Communication 
was almost completely cut off, and when he did 
now and then get some news — a scribbled note 
or an oral message brought by some new exiled 
offender against the king’s majesty — his home- 
sickness grew the stronger. 

There was one other hardship that he could 
not take lightly. As the two jogged along, leap- 


THE HILLS OF CONNEMARA 171 


ing at times from rock to rock, he gave expres- 
sion to it. 

“ Joe,’^ he said, ‘‘I was never away in all my 
life from home before, and, from the time I 
was introduced to Agnes and fell in love with 
her on sight there never passed three days that 
I did not see her. Sometimes I think I must be 
a baby. Oh, how lonely I have been ! Now and 
then it was almost maddening. It took away my 
sleep and my appetite. Yet I think I could have 
borne the separation easily if it had not been 
for one thing.’’ 

“What was that, Terence?” 

The scholar soldier hesitated before replying. 

“I don’t know whether it’s right to talk 
about it, Joe. It never occurred to me to men- 
tion it to any one before. But now that there’s 
hope of peace, hope of returning home, I can’t 
tell you how anxious I am to get back to old St. 
Francis Xavier’s — ^the Gardiner Street chapel 
— and receive Our Lord once more. Joe, I’ve 
been to communion only once since I left Dub- 
lin.” 

Joe was startled. He had many Catholic 
friends in the States who thought they were 
doing remarkably well if they approached the 
Holy Table every three months. 

“Since the beginning of the great war,” con- 
tinued Terence, “I have been communicating 
daily.” 

“You have!” said Joe. 

“Yes. And it made a change in my life. Oh, 
what a difference! Joe, don’t mention this to 


172 


ON THE RUN 


any one — but since IVe been on the run I have 
been hungry for the Body of Our Lord/’ 

Once more the boy was brought to see what 
an intimate thing religion was in the life of a 
Catholic Irishman. Had he heard such a 
declaration a few months before — say, at the 
time he landed in Ireland — he would, I fear, 
have received it with cynical disbelief. But a 
great change had come upon him in the event- 
ful weeks that had followed. 

‘‘I can’t say I feel that way myself,” he said 
humbly. ‘H’m not much of a Catholic, Terence. 
But I really have myself felt lately the loss of 
communion. It didn’t amount to a hunger for 
it, but I felt it all the same. But why is it that 
there are no priests with us ? ” 

‘ ‘ There was a priest who took care of all the 
soldiers in Connemara; but he was killed the 
very day I encountered the displeasure of the 
soldiers of the crown. No one has taken his 
place ; and although a priest has come to admin- 
ister to our needs three or four times since I’ve 
been here, it always happened when I was on 
duty elsewhere. Joe, I’m not only hungry for 
the Bread of Life, but, what is more, I feel that 
I need it. War like this engenders hate and 
revenge. Things that happened, and are hap- 
pening, that it is hard to forgive. And then, 
Joe, the best of us are all born with the old 
Adam in us. If the best of us have temptations, 
what about a poor fellow like me!” 

Joe listened humbly. It was, though Terence 
had no idea of it, the most powerful sermon that 


THE HILLS OF CONNEMARA 173 


Joe had ever heard. Here, speaking to him, 
was a hero, a man who had looked unblinkingly 
day after day into the bright face of danger, a 
man whose life was an inspiration to all about 
him, a scholar who, for all his learning, had the 
simplicity of a child. And yet he placed him- 
self, like the Publican, in the lowest place. He 
considered himself as the least of all his breth- 
ren. 

‘A tell you what,” said Joe brightly, won’t 
it be great when you and I get back to Dublin 
and go up to the altar railing together!” 

‘ ‘ It looks to me like a vision, ’ ’ said Terence. 

‘‘While I was in Galway,” Joe continued, “I 
did go to communion every day. And I know 
that it made a difference. I’ll tell you what, 
Terence. If ever I get back to the States, I’m 
going to keep it up. There was a time when I 
thought it would be goody-goody to do a thing 
like that ; but I know better now. If there are 
any braver men in the world than the Irish sol- 
diers, I haven’t heard of them. And I’ll bet 
that there aren’t. Well, the bravest of them are 
like you, Terence. I’ve seen ’em, and I’ve heard 
of them.” 

By this time they were rounding one of the 
grim, bare hills. The sky was filled with black 
clouds ; it had grown dark ; there was no moon. 
A gleam of light broke here and there upon 
one of the uncounted lakes of that region. 
Vague, indistinct, the hills about them loomed 
up dark and forbidding. For one who knew 
not the country progress would have been ex- 


174 


ON THE RUN 


ceedingly difficult. Even to Terence and Joe 
the way was not so simple. At times they were 
forced to walk at a snaiPs pace and pick their 
steps. 

In due course they came to a deep ravine 
through which some thirty feet below coursed 
a tiny stream. 

^^This looks pretty steep,” observed Joe, 
straining his eyes as he peered down into the 
blackness. 

‘ ‘ Suppose we go along till we get to the road. 
IPs not more than a hundred yards away,” sug- 
gested Terence. “I fancy there’ll be no Black- 
and-Tans about tonight, after the reception we 
gave them.” 

‘‘It’s the only way, ’ ’ said Joe. “ That stream 
below is pretty wide just now ; even if there is 
a drought. Come on. Let’s go.” 

As they Crossed the bridge one of the planks 
gave way under Terence’s feet. He was thrown 
roughly, but smiling rose at once only to fall 
again. 

“What’s the matter, Terence?” 

“I fear,” said Terence, concealing his agony 
under a serene face, “that I’ve given my ankle 
a bit of a twist. Help me up, Joe.” 

Braced by the boy, Terence attempted to 
walk. In vain. He could not without exquisite 
pain put his right foot to the ground. 

“This is too l3ad,” he said. “Joe, we’re only 
a mile and a half or so from the rendezvous. 
You could make it alone.” 

“And leave you here?” protested Joe. 


THE BILLS OF CONNEMARA 175 


‘‘But I’m forbidden, anyhow, to let you go 
unaccompanied. ’ ’ 

“Oh, that’s all right,” said the boy. “I’ll 
carry you.” 

“Then,” returned Terence with a low laugh, 
“I would be a baby in arms. As it is I’m a big 
baby; but I haven’t got that far, anyhow.” 

“Here’s an idea, Terence; suppose you lean 
on my arm. We can limp it in an hour at the 
slowest.” 

“But that’s asking too much of you, my boy. 
You’re only a boy after all.” 

Terence reflected for a few moments. 

“Perhaps this will solve our difficulty. If I 
had some sort of crutch ” 

“The very thing,” said Joe. “I see a clump 
of pretty stout bushes just up a little beside 
the road. Perhaps I could find something there 
that I could fit up into a crutch. I’ll be back 
in a jiffy.” 

‘ ‘ V ery good, Joe. But don ’t go farther away. 
Eemember there may be danger lurking any- 
where these days. Good-by, and God be with 
you.” 

Joe trotted forward briskly. Beaching the 
clump, he examined the bushes beside the road. 
There was nothing there that suited his critical 
eye. Perhaps he could find something to his 
purpose on the farther side. 

He stepped off the road, took but three steps, 
when he stopped suddenly. His heart seemed 
to stop at the same moment. Beside the bushes, 
half buried in them, was an unlighted lorry. 


176 


ON THE RUN 


One look and the boy turned to flee. But a pair 
of stout arms caught him and swung him about. 

Uttering no sound, Joe raised his eyes upon 
the face of his captor. In spite of himself he 
could not suppress a gasp. 

There was the jagged scar, the flerce face of 
his old enemy — the first Black-and-Tan he had 
encountered on his entrance into Dublin. 


CHAPTER XIL 


JOE FINDS HIMSELF IN VERY BAD COiMPANY. 



do Joe justice, it must be said that he 


was more surprised than frightened. But 
if his nerves were somewhat shaken for a mo- 
ment, who would blame him? The dark, the 
loneliness, the suddenness of it all would have 
frightened almost into hysterics a man of ordi- 
nary bravery. Perhaps the greatest shock of 
all to the boy was the face of George Hill, his 
ancient enemy, who no doubt had been feeding 
fat his ancient grudge. But frightened though 
he was, Joe did not lose his presence of mind. 
It was his instinct to call for help. But he held 
his peace. Such a call would have brought 
Terence Mulry to the scene. Ankle or no ankle, 
Mulry would not have failed him; and Mulry, 
upon whose head was a price, would also have 
fallen, crippled as he was, into the toils. 

His captor returned Joe’s gaze. 

^^Oh!” he cried, raising his voice. ^‘My 
friend, the bloody American!” 

He said no more, for Joe, ducking suddenly 
and breaking partially away from the soldier’s 
grasp, caught him in a special hold learned from 
McGroarty, and sent the fellow sprawling to the 
ground. Joe threw himself upon the unpre- 


111 


178 


ON THE RUN 


pared Black-and-Tan and gripped him by the 
throat in such a way as to stifle the blasphemous 
remarks which George Hill was then and there 
inclined to utter. 

‘‘Help!^^ cried Joe full-voiced. 

As he spoke he was rudely jerked away, jolted 
to his feet, and held fast by two Black-and- 
Tans, who, concealed in the bushes, had up to 
this time contented themselves with enacting 
the part of interested spectators. 

Joe could have bitten his tongue for calling 
for help. The prostrate Black-and-Tan, boiling 
with rage, jumped to his feet and struck the un- 
protected boy two blows in the face. Joe’s lip 
was bruised and cut and, as one of his new 
captors put himself between the boy and his 
aggressor, began to bleed. 

‘‘He’s only a boy,” explained Joe’s defender. 

“A boy!” cried Hill hotly. “He has enough 
devils in him for a dozen men.” The fellow 
would have flown at Joe again; but the friendly 
soldier, once more interposing, said: “Come 
on now; you can settle this little matter when 
we get back to Tuam. Come on.” 

Joe was bundled into the lorry; and while 
the machine, still unlighted, slipped into the 
road, Terence Mulry, creeping on hands and 
knees, crawled into the protecting bushes by the 
roadside, and, as the sweat of pain and sorrow 
stood out upon his face, watched Joe carried 
off into captivity. As the lorry went its way, 
Terence, still on hands and knees, proceeded at 
iicredible speed, under the circumstances, in the 


JOE IN VERY BAD COMPANY 179 


opposite direction. After going quite a distance 
in this fashion he arose and attempted to walk. 
He sank with a groan to the ground. His ob- 
jective was not more than a quarter of a mile’s 
distance — the magnificent castle, once the prop- 
erty of the Duke of Manchester, now the lovely 
home of a Belgian sisterhood. Once arrived 
there he felt sure that he could pick out some 
man about the place who would spread the 
alarm. But no matter how quickly he reached 
the castle, discovered the messenger, and sent 
him speeding, the awful fact remained that the 
lorry containing Joe was going at a rate which 
made all hope of immediate rescue impossible. 

Terence, with a conscience sensitive to the 
point of scrupulosity, was troubled. Had he 
not been unfaithful to his trust in permitting 
Joe to leave his side? Had he not shown lack 
of prudence and judgment? In any event, Joe, 
the lad whom he had learned to love, Joe, whom 
every Sinn Feiner looked upon as the highest 
type of the American boy, was in the hands of 
the most ferocious soldiers who had ever fought 
since the days of Hun and Goth. Terence’s 
eyes were wet as he resumed his progress on 
hands and knees. He had, after what seemed 
to him to be an intolerable length of time, come 
abreast of the beautiful chapel belonging to the 
duke’s estate, when he saw, or thought he saw, 
someone approaching him. Quickly, unobtru- 
sively, he crept into the shadow of the chapel, 
trusting that he had not been seen, and watched 
and waited. Yes, there was someone coming — 


180 


ON THE RUN 


a woman garbed as a peasant. He watched her 
closely as she drew near. Could it be friend 
or foe? The odds were a hundred to one that 
any woman in these parts might be trusted. 

‘^Hist he said. 

The woman started, her right hand went un- 
der her cloak and remained there as she turned 
her eyes and saw a man lying on the ground 
in the shadow of the church. i.. 

^‘What may it be, my good man?’^ she in- 
quired, drawing near. 

‘‘There’s an American boy been captured 
just now by the Black-and-Tans — three of 
them. ’ ’ 

“What!” said the woman starting. “Joe 
Eanly?” 

“Do you know him?” 

“I love him,” said the woman simply. 

“Oh, thank God. Now listen, listen!” 

Eapidly but with perfect coherence Terence 
explained the situation. The woman listened 
with undivided attention. 

“Thank God I came upon you. Now I’m off 
to get help for you; and if there’s anything that 
can be possibly done for Joe, I’ll have it seen 
to.” The woman was off as she uttered these 
words. 

Joe, in the meantime, was seated between the 
two Black-and-Tans who had recaptured him. 
George Hill was acting as chauffeur. They 
were going over the lone road at a speed of 
forty odd miles an hour. . The two men between 
whom Joe sat were silent. In fact, as the boy 


JOE IN VERY BAD COMPANY 181 


thought, they looked rather ashamed of them- 
selves — ^especially the friendly soldier whom 
the other two addressed as Art. 

Joe meditated and prayed. He was no longer 
nervous. Over and over, he repeated his fa- 
vorite prayer, ‘‘We fly to thy patronage, 0 holy 
Mother of God,’’ and each time he said it, his 
confidence grew stronger. 

The night continued dark though it was al- 
ready wearing on to dawn. There was a dash 
of red in the eastern sky. 

As is known, the first blush of dawn stim- 
ulates certain birds to break from silence into 
song. By no stretch of the imagination could 
one compare these lovely creatures of the air 
with Black-and-Tans. Nevertheless, the cap- 
tors of Joe broke into speech. 

“One hour, Jim,” said Art, “and we’ll be 
safe and sound in Tuam.” 

“And before noon we’ll settle with the rebel- 
lious widow.” 

“And,” put in the scarred chauffeur, “I’m 
going to teach the saucy young lady of the house 
a lesson — ^whether she likes it or not.” 

“You lay off on that. Hill,” growled Art. 

“And you mind your own business,” re- 
torted Hill. 

“That widow must be made to submit,” put 
in James. 

“Let’s have a drink,” said the chauffeur, 
bringing the car to a stop. 

The three of them took out their respective 
flasks. Joe observed that they were nearly 


182 ON THE RUN 

empty. Another round would exhaust the sup- 
ply. 

‘^To hell with the Pope/^ said George Hill, 
fixing unfavorable eyes on Joe. 

^‘Is that the only prayer you knowT^ asked 
the boy. 

“You keep a civil tongue in your head.’^ 

“I’ll be glad to, if you’ll stop talking to me.” 

The chauffeur raised his flask on high, as 
though he were about to launch it at the boy’s 
head ; but the liquor still left catching his eye, 
he thought better of it, and grumbling under his 
breath that he’d yet settle with the cheeky 
American, he started the engine. 

The drink had stimulated him; he in turn 
stimulated the car. In a moment they were 
tearing along the road at a speed varying from 
forty-five to fifty miles. 

“Easy, Hill,” remonstrated Art. 

“Leave it to me,” returned the chauffeur. 

There was nothing else to be done ; the chauf- 
feur had his will. Five minutes later, George 
Hill, without relaxing his speed, took a gully. 
The lorry made it successfully, but suddenly 
slowed up and presently ceased to move. 

“I wonder what’s the matter!” he inquired. 

“As you are to blame for whatever is the 
matter,” observed Art, “you might as well get 
out and see.” 

George Hill emptied his flask and stepping 
from the car proceeded to investigate. 

The east had gone red. Nature was restored 
by the morning light to her rich colors. The 


JOE IN VERY BAD COMPANY 183 


country had changed its character. The hills 
were gone — the fierce rocks, the treeless land- 
scape. On one side of the road stretched a 
pasture land, on the other a wall about fifteen 
feet in height, a wall that stretched as far as 
the eye could see. Joe surmised, and rightly, 
that it was the demesne of some noble lord. 
The wall itself shut otf from vulgar eyes a 
thickly wooded tract of land, that had never 
been under cultivation. There were several 
square miles of these preserves. Now and then 
in the proper season the lord allowed his fam- 
ily and his personal friends to hunt and to fish 
therein. For the rest of the year, it remained 
cloistered. That is, it was supposed to remain 
cloistered. As a matter of fact, many a daring 
young fellow invaded the sacred precincts, and 
bagged his hare, or killed his fish. In the eyes 
of England, such a thing is criminal, and the 
poacher, if caught, is liable to a stiff jail sen- 
tence. So long as poaching goes on, the English 
will never admit that there is no crime in Ire- 
land. They have made poaching a crime, and 
that, of course, settles it. 

Joe cast a critical eye upon the wall. It was 
not an inviting one, if there were question of 
scaling it. Its top was spiked, and covered, 
here and there, with bits of broken glass. There 
was no need of the sign ‘‘Keep out’’; every 
foot of the top conveyed that unfriendly mes- 
sage. 

Meantime Hill was “getting under” and go- 
ing over the different parts of the engine. 


184 OlSl THE RUN 

^^Say he said at last, ‘‘you fellows will have 
to help me.^^ 

“What about this boyT^ asked Jim. 

“Yes; and that reminds me,’^ said the chauf- 
feur. “We may be stalled here for some time. 
If they know that this boy has been captured, 
there may be a pursuit. 

“How could they knowT’ asked Jim. 

“Boy,’’ inquired Hill, “were you alone!” 

“I’m never alone!” returned Joe. 

“What do you mean!” asked Hill, blanching. 

“I’ve got a guardian angel,” said Joe, at 
once serious and jocose. 

“Was there anybody else with you!” con- 
tinued Hill. 

“If there was, you may ask them,” came the 
answer. 

It was only the presence of Art that caused 
George Hill to refrain from striking the boy 
with the wrench he held in his hand. 

“All will have to get out; we must raise the 
lorry. Here, we’ll tie Joe to this tree.” 

Joe made no resistance. They brought him 
over to a tree which grew alongside the for- 
bidding wall. In a few minutes Joe was fas- 
tened about the feet, the waist, and the shoul- 
ders to the tree. “Now how do you feel — pretty 
comfortable!” asked Joe’s enemy. 

Joe appeared to be deaf. 

“What were you doing when we caught 
you!” 

“I was looking for a pin I dropped around 
there the week before last.” 


JOE IN VERY BAD COMPANY 185 


‘ ‘ Keep a civil tongue in your head. ’ ’ 

“I will, if you stop talking to me.’^ 

“What were you doing in the hills of Conne- 
mara?^^ 

“Having a good time.^’ 

“How?^’ 

“Chasing sardines and looking for snakes.’’ 

Hill rushed at Joe and struck him in the face. 
He would have continued this brutal assault 
upon the helpless boy, had not the other two 
intervened. 

“You fool!” said Art. “We may have no 
time to lose. Come on, let’s get busy.” 

The three returned to their machine ten yards 
up the road, and soon were absorbed in the task 
of raising it into the required position. 

Joe, smarting under the blow, though he had 
acted like a Stoic when he received it, said his 
favorite prayer, said it a second and a third 
time, and would have gone on, when a slight 
noise above his head distracted him. 

“Hist!” said a voice barely distinct enough 
to be heard. Joe braced himself. He had need 
to. Down before his startled gaze, came an 
arm. He looked up, and saw sitting upon the 
tree, and leaning towards him, the Stormy 
Petrel. In her hand was a knife, and that knife 
quickly severed the rope that held his arms and 
shoulders. 

“Now take this knife, and cut your bonds and 
run. God be with you.” 

Joe was quick to obey her first injunction and 
throwing the knife over the wall, resumed his 


186 


ON THE RUN 


old position as though he were still bound fast. 

Joe was thinking hard. The simple way of 
escape was to run down the road while the 
Black-and-Tans were absorbed in their work. 
But even with a good start, they would in all 
probability recapture him. Another way was 
to scale the wall and lose himself in the shrub- 
bery. Could there be another, a better, a surer 
way? 

“One more prayer, and 111 choose,’’ said Joe 
to himself, ^d once more he repeated, with 
the devotion and confidence of youth, “"We fly 
to thy patronage, 0 holy Mother of God.” 

The wondrous prayer finished, Joe turned his 
eyes towards the Black-and-Tans — ^eyes that as 
they turned widened to their utmost. They 
were just restoring the lorry to its normal po- 
sition, and Joe could see without being told 
that the engine trouble was over. 

“All aboard!” called Hill, ironically. “Come 
on, Mr. Smart Alec.” 

And as the three turned their eyes on the 
“smart alec,” they saw what for a moment 
they thought a miracle. 

For Joe did come on. Walking forward three 
paces, he suddenly leaped into the tree, swung 
upon a branch, and, in less time than it takes 
to tell, took a leap like a flying squirrel over 
the wall. 

The boy’s disappearance was followed by an 
outburst of rage expressed in curses and blas- 
phemy. 

“Here,” cried Hill, running to the tree. “We 


JOE IN VERY BAD COMPANY 187 

can’t let him go. Come on, fellows. We’ll get 
him.” 

All three mounted the tree. They were, in 
comparison with Joe, extremely slow. But, 
helping each other, they did scale the wall, and, 
separating, started in three several directions 
to capture the amazing young American. 

Five minutes later there appeared over the 
wall a face smiling like an ecstatic pussy-cat; 
the face was followed by arms and legs that 
were wriggling with joy. Joe dropped lightly 
to the ground, stepped airily into the machine, 
and, a moment later, was speeding towards the 
historic old town of Tuam, leaving behind him 
three of the most chagrined soldiers who ever 
disgraced the army of the crown, leaving them, 
as on hearing the purring of the machine they 
hastened back to the road, to hurl after the bet- 
ter man a devil’s litany of oaths and impreca- 
tions. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

JOB FINDS HiIMSELF IN THE VERY BEST COMPANY. 

PPoR nearly one full quarter of an hour, Joe 
was so bubbling over with exultation that, 
though on the way, he neglected to ask himself 
whither he was going. The question eventu- 
ally presented itself to him, and, still smiling 
and chuckling he brought his machine to a halt 
within a short distance of a rather fine looking 
Public House. 

‘Hf I go on,’’ he reasoned, “I’ll finally 
reach Tuam. Tuam may be all right, but that’s 
where my three friends are to hold their ren- 
dezvous before they settle things with the 
widow, whoever she may be, and her daughter. 
I’d like to be around when they come to settling 
things. But I guess that’s just precisely where 
I ought not to be. I seem to be born to trouble. 
Shall I go, or clear out of harm’s way? I 
wonder what that widow did, and what sort of 
a daughter has she?” 

At this point, he fancied that he heard a 
sigh. He looked about him on all sides. Even 
as he looked, he felt sure that he heard a sob. 
Joe followed with his eyes the direction whence 
the sob seemed to come. 


188 


JOE IN VERY BEST COMPANY 189 
lie exclaimed, and got down from the 

car. 

A stone ditch’ ^ — in America a wall — was 
on one side of the road. Beyond it, was a 
grove of trees; and there in the grove but a 
few yards beyond the roadside, the eager eyes 
of the boy had picked out the form of a woman 
kneeling in prayer. Her face, turned from him, 
was fixed on a lime tree before which she was 
kneeling. 

Joe tiptoed forward. It was a girl. Her 
dark hair nnconfined fell down in glossy waves 
to her waist. Her face was upturned, not pre- 
cisely to the tree, but to a beautiful statue of 
Mary Immaculate, fitted into a nitch in the 
trunk a few feet above her face. Manoeuvering 
carefully, Joe worked his way through some 
bushes to get a position where he could obtain 
a view of her face. As he got beyond the 
bushes, his curiosity was rewarded. 

“Great Scott!” cried Joe. “Eileen Des- 
mond!” 

Eileen, two great tears still upon her cheeks, 
jumped to her feet as though a cannon ball 
had been fired at her ear, and turned her 
startled gaze upon the intruder. 

Joe, it may be stated, was not over particu- 
lar, at this stage of his life, about his attire 
or his looks. But ff he had had an opportunity 
on that blessed morning to survey himself in 
a looking-glass, he might have been embar- 
rassed in thrusting himself, as he then ap- 
peared, upon the notice of the one girl whose 


190 


ON THE RUN 


presence had filled him on their first meeting 
with a sense of awe. 

His garments were covered with a coating of 
mud and burrs. Without these disfigurements 
they were sorry enough. One eye was swollen 
and badly discolored; his lip was puffed and 
clotted with blood, and several streaks of dirt 
disguised whatever of beauty or seemliness was 
left in his badly disfigured countenance. 

Eileen, like a startled fawn, looked upon this 
uninviting apparition and recognized the boy 
she had never forgotten. But how changed! 
Could it be an apparition f Perhaps Joe was 
dead and had been sent by our Lady to whom 
she had been just pouring forth her sorrows, 
to warn her. Joe dead! However, if Joe were 
a visitant from the other world, why should 
he have invited her attention to his presence by 
shouting out Great Scott!’’ Eileen’s read- 
ings had led her to believe that dead people 
revisiting the glimpses of the moon were not 
wont to use language of the “Great Scott” 
character. 

“It’s only me, Eileen,” bawled Joe, speak- 
ing, in his excitement, naturally, which is very 
often not at all grammatically. 

Then the face of Eileen, which had gone 
white, flushed into a rosy red. 

“0 Joe! 0 Joe!” she cried, and ran for- 
ward and, the light of ecstasy shining in her 
dark eyes, she caught both his hands, and, 
dimpling and laughing and sobbing, held to 
them as though they were her one safe anchor 


JOE IN VERY BEST COMPANY 191 

in a surging sea of troubles. Surely/^ she 
went on wildly, ‘'the Mother of God has heard 
my prayers. Joe, she has sent you; and that 
means that you are going to save us.’’ 

Joe smiled — if he only could realize how vil- 
lainous he looked in smiling. It was a crooked 
smile — ^not the kind that authors so commonly 
nowadays give to their heroes — ^but the crooked 
smile of one whose lip is swollen and refuses 
to function properly. 

“But, Joe,” continued the almost hysterical 
young lady, her face going from smiles to 
solicitude, “what has happened to you? You 
have been beaten, you have been dragged 
through mud and mire, you — ^you have =” 

“I have been having the time of my life,” in- 
terrupted Joe with another smile, the sight of 
which would have thrown a baby into fits. ‘ ‘ But 
you have had real trouble, Eileen.” 

It was at this point of the conversation that 
Eileen came to notice that she was still cling- 
ing to Joe’s hands. She started, released her 
hold upon the hideous youth, and gave the boy 
an exMbition which the drug-stores of our 
country have made utterly impossible to the 
American girl — saving to such American 
maidens as have managed to grow up in our 
jazz-ridden country with their sense of modesty 
unimpaired. Eileen’s face grew rose-red with 
blushes. 

“0 — ^0 ” she stammered. “I — I — ^beg 

your pardon, Joe. I was so startled that I quite 
forgot myself — and ” 


192 


ON THE RUN 


^^Cut it out,’’ said Joe kindly. am glad 
that you were glad to see me. But what I want 
to know is what’s the trouble, Eileen? I heard 
you crying. I saw tears on your cheeks. Can 
I help you?” 

^‘Joe, they are going to burn down our 
house.” 

‘‘What house?” 

“Don’t you see that house up the road?” 

“0! is that your house?” 

“Yes, Joe.” 

“But who are going to burn it?” 

“Three Black-and-Tans. We expect the^i 
today.” 

“Say, Eileen, is your mother a widow?” 

“Yes. How did you know?” 

“And is one of these Black-and-Tans a bird 
with a great red scar across his forehead?” 

“Yes — ^yes — ^yes!” 

“Holy smoke!” gasped the boy, “and your 
mother is the widow they were talking about — 
and that scarred fellow said — ^0! if ever I get 
my hands on him again, he’ll get something 
that he’ll never forget if he lives for a century.” 

Joe had worked himself into a great rage. 

If smiling he looked like a villain, in his pres- 
ent mood he presented a face that would have 
given Gustave Doree new ideas in the way of 
horror for the illustrating of Dante’s Inferno. 

“Joe!” remonstrated Eileen, “you scare 
me.” 

Joe smiled wryly, and, of course, villain- 
ously. 


JOE IN VERY BEST COMPANY 193 


Those men who intend to burn your home/^ 
he explained, ^^are seven or eight miles up the 
road. If they are coming, they will come on 
foot. And there, continued Joe, pointing 
towards the road, ‘4s their machine.’’ 

“0, tell me all about it, Joe.” 

“There’s nothing to tell. Last night when 
I was snooping along — ” 

“I beg your pardon, Joe.” 

“O, just walking along, you know, I blun- 
dered into those fellows, and they grabbed me. 
They put me in their machine out in Conne- 
mara, and thought they’d bring me to Tuam. 
A flower woman, I call her the Stormy Petrel, 
came along and helped me get away, and while 
the three were looking for me, I just slipped 
back in their machine and motored along. I — 
I’ve skipped a lot, but my story will hold. Tell 
me, Eileen, what started those birds after your 
mother.” 

“Joe, I’ll not say one word about it, till you 
come home with me. Mother and I will attend 
to your bruises.” 

Joe thoughtfully seated himself on the ground. 

“Look you, Eileen, I’ll not move one step 
from this spot till you tell me what’s the 
trouble.” 

“I’ll not,” returned Eileen. “I’ll not say 
one word till you get a wash, and a good break- 
fast, and ” 

“All right,” said Joe, “Here I sit, then, till 
those infernal Black-and-Tans come swinging 
along. ’ ’ 


194 


01^ THE RUN 


This vision was too much for Eileen. 

‘‘Very well,’’ she said resignedly. “Yester- 
day, those three men stopped in front of our 
place, and seated in their lorry looked at the 
name carved over our main door. It was the 
name of my father, Padraig Desmond, written 
in Gaelic letters over the lentil. 

“Then they got out and entered the place, 
and asked the man in charge of the bar for 
Patrick Desmond. The man said that Patrick 
Desmond was seven miles away. They asked 
what he was doing there, and our man said he 
was resting. ‘How long has he been resting?’ 
‘Two years,’ was the answer, ‘and three months.’ 
The Black-and-Tans got angry. ‘Stop your 
lying,’ they said, ‘and send for him right away.’ 
Then it was explained to them that he was dead. 
They thought our bar-tender was a born fool, 
and he did nothing to correct that impres- 
sion. Then they insisted on seeing my mother. 
Michael told them respectfully that her day 
for receiving visitors was on a Tuesday. Then, 
they swore. Michael apologized, and after more 
dialogue made up of misunderstandings, he 
came to our rooms upstairs. I was with mother. 
‘Sure,’ says Michael, ‘if you’d let me mix them 
a little drink, ma’am, a little drink of me own 
composition, they wouldn’t be wanting to see 
you, or anybody for a couple of weeks or so.’ 

“ ‘No, Michael,’ said mother, ‘we’ve kept the 
peace, and no one has ever been wronged in 
this house, and no one, please God, ever will 
be. Within a week or two, we make over this 


JOE IN VERY BEST COMPANY 195 


place to the purchasers, and it is my hope and 
prayer that they will come into possession of 
a Public House against which no charge of any 
kind has ever been made. Tell them, Michael, 
that I will be down at once.’ And mother, say- 
ing a prayer and asking me to pray, too, went 
down. Then those men told her that she would 
have to remove that name above her door in 
twenty-four hours. ‘And why?’ said my mother. 
‘It’s the name of my husband, God rest him, 
who led a blameless life, and died as he had 
lived.’ They explained to her that they didn’t 
like that style of lettering. ‘But why?’ she 
asked. ‘It’s too Irish,’ one of them said. ‘My 
husband put it up’ she said, ‘and I’ll not take 
it down.’ ‘If it’s not tilled in within twenty- 
four hours,’ said the ugly-faced one, ‘we’ll burn 
down your place over your heads.’ ‘It will 
not be filled in,’ she answered. As the three 
went out, Michael who had been busy with vari- 
ous bottles asked them to take a drink. Of 
course, they would. Michael, as he spoke, 
glanced uneasily at my mother. She walked 
over to the bar, and looked closely at the three 
glasses. Taking them up one by one, she 
■threw the contents upon the floor. ‘Not that 
stuff, Michael : give them the best in the house. 
Here, I’ll attend to them myself.’ And, Joe, 
for the first and only time in her life, my mother 
served the drinks herself. As the men emptied 
their glasses, and handed them back to her, she 
threw them on the hearthstone shivering them 
into pieces. ‘What’s the meaning of that?’ 


196 


ON THE RUN 


asked one of the men suspiciously. ‘ The mean- 
ing is/ said mother, ‘that I want no man who 
enters my place to touch a glass that has touched 
the lips of the likes of you.’ I had come down 
while my mother was saying this and stood at 
the foot of the stairs. One of them, the scarred 
one, kissed his hands and started towards me. 
I ran upstairs, and bolted myself in.” 

“I’m glad I didn’t know that last night,” 
said Joe grimly. 

‘ ‘The other two were still puzzling over what 
my mother had said. It might have dawned 
upon them gradually that my mother’s words 
were anything but complimentary, when the 
fellow with the scar started to follow me. The 
two called for him to return at once, which he 
did, and as they went out their last words were 
that they would be back today.” 

“Are there any other men with them? asked 
Joe. 

“No, Joe: we have made enquiries, and it 
seems that they have been hanging around 
Tuam for the past four or five days. Some 
think that they are here for a vacation and are 
on a drinking bout. Others think they are de- 
serters. If they are, it’s not for their love of 
the Irish.” 

“Well,” said Joe arising, “I’m willing to be 
fed and fixed up. And I reckon we can think 
up some scheme to bluff them. Come on, Eileen, 
I fooled those three fellows before, and I don’t 
see why I can’t do it again.” 

“Before you tell me how you fooled them,” 


JOE IN VERY BEST COMPANY 197 


said Eileen, must get your breakfast, and 
liave your face attended to/’ 

To tell the truth, Joe was a very hungry boy. 
He did not proclaim this fact, but the pace at 
which he set out for Padraig Desmond’s house 
was not entirely due to his desire to acquaint 
Eileen with his latest adventures. 

^ Arrived at the main entrance, Eileen pounded 
vigorously at the door. 

Who’s there?” came a voice from within. 

Eileen and a friend,” the girl answered. 

^‘Just a second, Eileen.” 

Eor some time there was a great noise as of 
the moving of much furniture from within. 

^^0,1 forgot when I went out this morning, ’ ’ 
explained Eileen. ^‘They were to barricade 
every door.” 

At the last word, a key was turned in the 
lock, and Michael cautiously opening the door, 
stuck out his head. 

^‘Now may the Lord be betwane us and all 
harm,” he said. ‘‘But me heart jumped out 
of me mouth when ye knocked. I thought it 
was them infernal Black-and-Tans. Come in, 
and,” he added addressing Joe, “God save ye 
kindly, sir.” 

“Is that you, Eileen,” came a motherly voice 
from the head of the staircase. 

“Yes, mother; and you’d never guess who 
is with me. You never, never could guess — ^not 
in a hundred years.” 

Mrs. Desmond had tripped down the stairs 


198 


ON TEE RUN 


while Eileen was speaking. Going np to Joe, 
she bent kind eyes npon the boy. 

‘ ‘ Sure, it ’s Joe Eanly ! ^ ^ she said. ‘ ‘ God 
bless you, Joe. You are welcome, 0 so welcome. 
Eileen does talk of you every hour of the day — 

‘‘0, mother, stop,’’ pleaded Eileen, clasping 
her hands, and blushing as though she had never 
blushed before. 

‘‘She thinks you’re the most wonderful boy 
in the world.” 

“Thank you, Eileen; thank you, ma’am. I’ll 
try to live up as well as I can to her good 
opinion of me.” 

Mrs. Desmond, not content with shaking the 
boy’s hand, planted a hearty kiss upon his bat- 
tered cheek. 

“Good heavens I” she exclaimed. “You’ve 
been fighting again.” 

“Again!” said Joe. “Where did you get 
that?” 

“From Eileen,” returned the good woman. 
‘ ‘She knows pretty much all about you from the 
time — ” 

“0, mother!” pleaded Eileen, the red signals 
of amiable distress again spreading themselves 
over her cheeks. 

“From the time,” repeated Mrs. Desmond, 
“that you arrived in Dublin till you suddenly 
disappeared from Galway. Eileen has cor- 
respondents everywhere. She knows much of 
your story by heart — but you are hungry, Joe?” 

“Not to put too fine a point upon it, I am.” 


JOE IN VERY BEST COMPANY 199 


Joe was half starved. He had not had a 
decent meal since the morning before. 

“Well, breakfast is ready. After that we ^11 
give yon the bathroom prepared, and yon ^11 
come ont feeling like a new man. ’ ’ 

Joe, who had fnrtively glanced in a mirror 
dnring this conversation, came to realize how 
mnch he did need a good washing. Neverthe- 
less, when he saw a plate of pancakes, hot from 
the griddle, and inhaled the gratefnl aroma of 
cotfee, and gazed npon the bacon and the fried 
eggs, he qnite forgot all abont this crying need, 
and set himself so Instily to the matter in hand 
that the cakes disappeared with a rapidity, 
which, in view of the fact that he was not a 
conjnrer, was rather startling. It was the 
finest breakfast of a healthy lifetime. 

“Now,’’ said Joe arising, “I feel as if I 
could lick every Black-and-Tan from Belfast to 
Cork. 0, that’s so,” he added, flushing as he 
caught his reflection in a mirror over the side- 
board, “where’s that bathroom 

When Joe twenty minutes later reappeared, 
he looked battered, but decent. Mother and 
daughter were ready for him, with plasters, 
raw beef and clothing brushes. They^ spent 
much time on the young gentleman. His own 
mother and sisters could not have done more. 
There was a couch in the room. Despite his 
protests, Joe was constrained to lie upon it, 
and while Mrs. Desmond obscured most of his 
features with vinegar and brown paper and raw 
beef, he was forced, by dint of merciless ques- 


200 


ON THE RUN 


tioning, to give a full account of his adventures 
with the three English musketeers. 

They kept him on his back for full two hours, 
and when he arose much of his comeliness — 
such is the resiliency of youth and perfect 
health — ^had returned. 

‘‘Let^s take a run around the country, he 
suggested. 

The hosts could not conceal their amazement. 

‘‘T^y, what’s the matter!” 

‘‘But don’t you know that those three men 
will he looking for you!” asked Eileen. 

“That’s so. O !” he added, striking his brow 
with his right palm. “What a fool I am. I 
left that machine of theirs right in the road. 
Unless they are bigger fools than I am, they’ll 
come to this house to get me.” 

“Don’t you worry, Joe,” said Eileen. “While 
you were bathing, I sent Machael to put that 
machine where they wouldn’t see it.” 

“Look!” said Joe, peering through the blinds. 
“0, look, Eileen. Look, Mrs. Desmond!” 

The two hurried to his side. 

“0,” whispered Eileen, “those are the 
three.” 

“God help us!” sighed the widow. “Are 
they coming to burn us down!” 

“No,” said Joe, looking critically at the three 
limping men. “They are too worn out for any 
deviltry just now, I reckon. WTiat they want 
badly is food and rest. I’ll bet they’ll not turn 
here for those things.” 

“I hope you are right, Joe.” 


JOE IN VERY BEST COMPANY 201 


And J oe was right. The men, each of them, 
glared at the house, one of them, Joe^s enemy, 
malignantly. They paused and held a discus- 
sion. 

^‘Pray, pray!^^ whispered Mrs. Desmond tak- 
ing out her beads. 

The men toiled on. The Desmonds, for the 
time being, were safe. 

‘‘Now look here, Mrs. Desmond,’^ said Joe, 
when they had watched the enemy out of sight, 
“if I know anything of that breed, theyT come 
either at night or early in the morning. We 
needn’t worry about them till curfew time, or 
thereabouts. How are you off for hot water*?” 

“We can get you a good supply of that,” 
laughed the widow. 

“It might be very handy. And who’s here 
to help defend the house besides Michael?” 

“Every night,” said Mrs. Desmond, “for the 
last year there have come to our house four 
men. Every morning, before people are astir, 
they disappear.” 

“Who are they?” asked Joe mightily inter- 
ested. 

“What we don’t know,” answered the widow, 
“we can’t talk about. Neither Eileen nor I 
have ever seen them come in or go out — at least, 
not till last night. I have the impression that 
they go up to our attic, but I couldn’t affirm 
it as a fact. But last night, we sent for them, 
and told them our troubles. They are all anx- 
ious to stand by us. They guarded our house 
this morning imtil dawn. Then they went off 


202 


ON THE RUN 


as usual. They say just what you say, Joe; 
that the Black- and-Tans will attempt nothing 
except early in the day or at curfew time.^’ 

‘‘So those poor fellows are on the run,’’ said 
Joe. 

“Their likes are all over dear old Ireland,” 
said Eileen. 

“There’s one strange thing, though,” added 
the widow. “These four men say that they will 
not use arms in our defense.” 

“Those are the orders, Mrs. Desmond,” ex- 
plained Joe. “There’s hope of peace, and al- 
though we are still at war with England tech- 
nically, it is thought best by our leaders until 
further orders to refrain as much as possible 
from all bloodshed.” 

The hours that passed, despite the calamity 
which threatened the house, were delightful. 
Joe and Eileen and her mother exchanged views 
and news and confidences. Joe learned much 
of the family history of the Desmonds, and was 
duly impressed with the number of Irish Kings 
from which on both sides of the house they were 
descended. Also, he learned how, of Eileen’s 
two brothers, one had fallen in the great war 
fighting under England’s flag for the liberty 
which England was now denying Ireland; how 
the other brother was studying for the priest- 
hood at Eome; how Eileen’s only sister, two 
years older, had been taken away by the dread 
influenza epidemic. But what most interested 
the boy was Eileen herself — ^beautiful, innocent, 
holy. 


JOE IN VERY BEST COMPANY 203 


Eileen, in turn, learned something of Joe’s 
people — not much, it is true. Americans, as 
a class, take little interest in ^Hhe claims of 
long descent. ’ ’ But she did learn of his adven- 
tures and misadventures, of his games and con- 
tests ; and if there had been any lacunae in her 
knowledge of Joe’s adventures since his arrival 
in Ireland, she got the information that filled 
them in. 

By five o’clock of that evening, Joe and his 
two hosts were on the easy footing generally 
brought about by months of intimacy — an in- 
timacy that took nothing away of the boy’s 
reverence for Eileen. 

An hour after supper, which Joe attacked 
with fresh vigor, a very small boy, in very large 
garments, knocked at the door, and held a 
whispered conference with the bar-keeper. 

‘"Misses,” said Michael, running upstairs, 
“they do be saying that them Black- and-Tans 
are coming back.” 

“When, Michael?” 

“They haven’t got the rights of that, ma’am. 
But they know that they are coming back.” 

Joe, standing at the window-blinds, gave a 
low whistle. 

“What is- it, Joe?” asked Eileen. 

“Michael is right,” said Joe thoughtfully. 
“Look out on the road there.” 

“Yes, Michael; I see an old woman.” 

“Eight-O! And that woman is my Stormy 
Petrel. She’s a sure sign of coming trouble.” 


CHAPTEE XIY. 

IN THE MIDST OF DANGER. 


H alf an hour before cnrfew, there was a 
council of war. The four men who had 
been so long on the run were there ; Michael who 
still insisted that he could have settled the 
whole trouble had he been allowed to serve the 
Black-and Tans one round of drinks was there. 
So were Eileen and Joe, and the meeting was 
presided over by Mrs. Desmond herself. 

It was the sense of all, with the exception 
of Michael, that there should be no desperate 
measures employed. Better the house should 
be burned to the ground, in view of present 
conditions, than that a single human life should 
be sacrificed. The front and the two side en- 
trances, already strongly barricaded, were to 
be guarded. Eileen, Michael, and Mrs. Des- 
mond were to take turns during the night in 
relieving the four men. 

“But where do I come inP’ protested Joe. 
“Joe!’’ remonstrated Mrs. Desmond, “will 
you be good enough to tell us when you last had 
a sleep?” 

“That has nothing to do with the case,” ar- 
gued the boy. 

“When we are attacked, we’ll call you, Joe. 


204 


IN TEE MIDST OF DANGER 205 


You know you haven slept a wink since the 
night before last, and, even then, you had barely 
five hours’ sleep.” 

‘‘You must go to bed,” said all present. 

“And who will attend to the boiling water?” 

“That’s all arranged for, Joe,” answered 
Mrs. Desmond. “Two of the servants will look 
out for that. Now, my boy, good night.” 

“No,” said Joe. “I’ll not go to bed till I’m 
sure they won’t attack us tonight.” 

It took all the eloquence of every one present 
to bring Joe to another mind. Finally, assured 
that he would be aroused at the first sign of 
an attack, he permitted himself to be escorted 
to his sleeping room, where after a few prayers, 
he threw himself, attired as he was, upon the 
bed, and was almost at once locked in a dream- 
less sleep. 

It seemed to the boy that he had had but the 
shortest of naps, when he was brought to con- 
sciousness by the united efforts of the four men 
on the run. It took them several minutes to 
arouse him. Shouting was of no avail; shak- 
ing disturbed him not; but when they raised 
him bodily out of bed, and dropped him none 
too gently on the floor, he betrayed some signs 
of uneasiness. A glass of water thrown over 
his face brought him to full consciousness. 

“What’s the matter?” he enquired, rubbing 
his eyes and sitting up. 

“The Black-and-Tans are coming.” 

Fully awake, Joe sprang to his feet. 

“At this hour of the night?” he exclaimed. 


206 


ON THE RUN 


morning: it^s half-six/’ said one of the 

men. 

^‘Gee! IVe been asleep eight hours. Are 
they near!’^ 

‘^They^re coming along the road.^’ 

Joe rushed from his room, and ran over to 
the window facing the road. Yes: there they 
were, all three of them, not more than a hun- 
dred yards’ distance, coming up the road from 
Tuam. All were heavily burdened. In addi- 
tion to their guns, they carried kerosene cans, 
and kindling wood. 

‘‘Is there plenty of hot water?” asked Joe. 

“Lashins of it.” 

“And where are Eileen and Mrs. Desmond?” 

“Look,” said Michael, pointing to Mrs. Des- 
mond’s room, the door of which was slightly 
ajar. 

Joe stepped over to say a word of greeting 
and comfort; but he did not speak, for Mrs. 
Desmond, kneeling before a picture of our Lady 
of Perpetual Help, with Eileen beside her, was 
reciting the beads with a faith and fervor, the 
like of which it is rare to see outside of Holy 
Ireland. 

“If that won’t make us fight the better, noth- 
ing will,” Joe remarked. “I say, men, won’t 
you do me a favor? Let me take care of the 
front door : they will as like as not attack that 
first. And I want them to know that I’m 
here.” 

The men all nodded a cordial assent. 

“I’m Jack Conway, Joe,” said the youngest 


IN THE MIDST OF DANGER 207 


of them, ^‘and I’ll stand with yon. Come on, 
boys, ready with the hot water.” 

In a moment the windows overlooking the 
three entrances were manned. At every win- 
dow, there were placed three cans, each filled 
with boiling water. 

Meantime, the three musketeers” had come 
abreast of the house, and, pausing in the middle 
of the road, surveyed it carefully. The blinds 
were down, there was no sound. Evidently, all 
within were still slumbering. To make sure, 
Jim and Art made a reconnaissance, going all 
about the house. 

‘‘Whisper, Joe,” said Jack Conway, “if they 
come below us to start the fire, I think it would 
do no harm if you were to show yourself at 
once. You know, we men on the run are not 
known to be in this part of the country, and 
there’s a reward up for two of us. If they 
think you are the only man on the premises, 
we may give them a surprise. And besides you 
are an American.” 

“I’ll be glad to talk to them,” said Joe, 
“and I rather think they know I am an Amer- 
ican. But how will that help?” 

“In this way: they will think twice about 
shooting you. No Black and Tan, unless he is 
a bom fool, would think of doing harm to a 
citizen of the United States. And let me tell 
you something else, if the English government 
did not know that the Americans were watch- 
ing critically their doings here in Ireland, they 
would be a million times more cruel and bar- 


208 


ON THE RUN 


barous than they are. All the atrocities im- 
puted to the Germans in the world war would 
pale into insignificance in comparison.’’ 

^‘Even as it is,” said Joe, his eyes fixed on 
the three musketeers, who were now holding 
a council of war, ‘‘they have outdone the cruel- 
ties of the Germans in Belgium over and over. 
Halloa! Here they come. Now, Jack,” he 
continued, picking up a can of water, “when 
I give the sign, you throw back these blinds.” 

The three, leaving their petroleum cans and 
guns at the side of the road, were now advanc- 
ing, carrying in their arms dry straw, shavings 
and brushwood. 

“Throw ’em back. Jack,” ordered the boy 
when the would-be incendiaries were within a 
few steps of the main door. The sharp clap- 
ping of the shutters brought the miscreants 
to a stand. They raised their eyes, eyes that 
widened with amazement when they saw framed 
in the window the face and torso of Joe Eanly, 
in his hands a can of some liquid that was 
sending up clouds of steam. 

“Go way back and sit down,” came Joe’s 
clear and tranquil voice. 

Each of the three paused, each uttered ex- 
clamations, none of which were of an edifying 
nature. 

“You little devil,” called Hill, “how did you 
get here?” 

“Front door,” said Joe. “The door you are 
not permitted to use.” 

“Who’s with you?” asked George. 


IN THE MIDST OF DANGER 209 


guardian angel. 

“Where’s the widow?” 

“Not at home.” 

“Where’s her daughter?” 

“Not at home. I don’t mind telling you^ 
though, that they are at home on Tuesday after-^ 
noons.” 

“Is anybody in the house besides yourself?’^ 

“The only people I see around,” answered 
Joe, his eyes fixed on the three musketeers, “is 
yourselves; and I want to say right now that 
you are spoiling the appearance of the land- 
scape.” 

“Where’s our lorry?” 

“Gone where the woodbine twineth. Say, I 
hope you had a pleasant walk yesterday.” 

What prudence George Hill possessed was 
lost in the fury which Joe’s remark evoked. 
Dashing forward, he stooped to lay his armful 
of straw at the threshold, when Joe slightly 
tilted the can of water. Most of the hot water 
fell upon the straw, but some touched the sol- 
dier’s outstretched hand. 

If any were asleep in the house or the neigh- 
borhood, the awful howl he uttered would have 
brought them to perfect consciousness. Scream- 
ing and swearing, he ran back to the road, picked 
up his gun, and raised it to his shoulder. Joe 
promptly jumped to one side, throwing back 
the shutters as he did so. 

“Stop,” roared the Black-and Tan called 
Art. “You fool! Don’t you know that boy is 
an American? Put down that gun.” 


210 


ON THE RUN 


Looking through the blinds, Joe, seeing that 
Hill had obeyed, threw them open once more, 
and addressed the enemy. 

‘‘Next time yon try a trick like that, yon ^11 
get a real dose of hot water. The best thing 
you people can do is to go off to some place 
where nobody knows you.^^ 

But the puzzled and chagrined musketeers 
did not go off. They put their heads together 
and argued and gesticulated for several minutes. 

Mrs. Desmond and Eileen now came out and 
standing back of the window so as not to be 
seen without, remonstrated with Joe. 

“You’re exposing yourself too much, my 
dear boy,” said the woman. 

“But they didn’t have their guns. There 
was no danger at all. And besides, as Jack 
Conway says, it’s just as well they know there’s 
an American in the house. 0, that’s a fact: I 
forgot.” Dipping into his coat pocket, Joe 
brought out a small American flag, hardly more 
than the size of an ordinary handkerchief. “If 
we only had a small stick.” 

Eileen was off like a flash, returning with a 
tiny walking stick and thread and needle. Her 
deft fingers finished the work of mounting the 
flag while the incendiaries were still consulting. 
Before handing it back to Joe, she kissed it. 

Then Joe advancing to the window waved 
the Star and Stripes, singing at the top of his 
voice : 

“ ‘0, say can you see by the dawn’s early 
light.’ ” 


IN THE MIDST OF DANGER 211 


The musketeers paused and saw. To them 
it was like an apparition — a thing of ill omen. 

Then Joe fastened the improvised flagpole 
to the sill of the window, and elaborately sa- 
luted. And every one in the room, including 
the four Sinn Feiners, stood at attention, in a 
position that screened them from outside, and 
gave that emblem of the free the hearty and 
reverent salute which it ever wins from all 
lovers of freedom. 

‘‘Halloa!’’ said Joe presently. “They’re up 
to something. Look out for squalls.” 

Michael and the four Sinn Feiners scurried 
back to their respective posts. 

“Eileen,” said Joe, “go to each of our men 
and tell them that the Black-and-Tans are each 
taking one door. My old friend with the scar 
is waiting for me to leave this window. Per- 
haps they really do believe that I am alone.” 

Eileen tripped away to execute her commis- 
sion, leaving Joe smiling sweetly at his adver- 
sary below. 

“Look here,” shouted this worthy, as the 
other two took different sides of the house, “if 
you give yourself up to us, we’ll promise not 
to burn down the house.” 

“What’s the worth of your promise?” asked 
the boy. 

The man’s answer was forestalled by a loud 
yell: the Black-and-Tan who had advanced to 
the side door on Joe’s right had received a dose 
of hot water which sent him in a hasty retreat 


212 


ON THE RUN 


to the roadside. This was enough for Art, the 
third man. He too retired. 

‘‘How many of you are up there? asked 
Hill, moving away cautiously. 

“Enough to handle your crowd, answered 
the boy. 

The three musketeers consulted once more. 
The discussion waxed hot. George Hill was 
clearly in a minority. They argued for fully 
a quarter of an hour. At last, Art gave in. 
Throwing up his hands in protest, he said, 
“Very well, have it so. But I have my mis- 
givings.’^ 

Hill picked up his gun, cocked it, and advanc- 
ing within thirty feet of the door pointed it di- 
rectly at the window. Joe promptly closed the 
shutters. 

“Look you,” shouted Hill, “if you dare show 
your face in that window, I shoot.” 

Eileen and her mother, before the soldier 
had uttered the last word, fairly dragged Joe 
from his perilous position. 

“0, say!” growled the boy. “Are we going 
to stand here and be burnt out like rats in a 
hole? Isn’t there a gun in the house? Two 
can play at that game.” 

“Each of us has his gun,” answered Jack 
Conway, “but we’re not to use powder or ball, 
as you know, unless it’s absolutely necessary.” 

“Well, isn’t it absolutely necessary now?” 

Michael thought that it was: but the others 
stood with Conway. 

“All right,” sighed Joe. “But if we don’t 


IN THE MIDST OF DANGER 213 


shoot, they’ll burn this house. Excuse me, Mrs. 
Desmond, but I’ll take a look through the shut- 
ters. — ^Yes, my friend is still aiming at this win- 
dow; and the other two are piling up shavings 
and wood, and pouring oil on them. Say, if we 
can’t do anything else, suppose while we men 
watch, you and Eileen pray.” 

‘‘First,” insisted Mrs. Desmond, “you get 
away from that window, my boy.” 

“0, somebody must watch,” he protested. 

“And it’s myself will do that,” said Jack 
Conway, edging the boy aside. “Go on, Joe, 
and say a prayer yourself.” 

Joe turned towards the others. 

“Come on, now,” he said and made the sign 
of the Cross. All followed his example. 

Under his breath he murmured, “ ‘We fly to 
Thy patronage, 0 Holy Mother of God, despise 
not our petitions in our necessities, but deliver 
us from all danger, O ever glorious and Blessed 
Virgin.’ ” 

“Mrs. Desmond,” he added, “do you and 
Eileen say the beads?” 

“Eight gladly, Joe.” 

“It would be a pity,” commented Joe, “to 
see this house burnt down. Worst of all, if 
Eileen and her mother were captured.” 

“0!” interrupted Michael in amazement. 

Joe swung Jack aside, dashed forward and 
peered through the shutters. 

“Those prayers are working,” he said. 
“Something’s going to happen.” 

Then Joe bent his gaze not upon Hill, but 


214 


ON THE RUN 


upon a figure advancing from the road — sl wom- 
an, crouching low, and moving with the noise- 
lessness and litheness of a cat. She was ad- 
vancing upon Hill, the only armed man of the 
besiegers. His companions were at the moment 
applying matches to the pile of wood. Joe^s 
eyes wandered for a moment to the roadside. 
The two guns of the incendiaries, thanks to the 
thoughtfulness of the newcomer, had disap- 
peared. As the boy stood gazing, gazing open- 
mouthed and breathless till the woman was just 
upon the unsuspecting gunner, there was a 
crackling noise below. A column of flame burst 
out, and at that very moment, the woman, with 
one spring, was upon Hill, bringing him flat 
upon his back. As the gun fell from his hands, 
it went otf. The woman picked it up, and stand- 
ing erect raised it to her shoulder and made 
ready to fire. 

Great guns!’’ roared Joe, throwing open 
the window, ‘‘the Stormy Petrel again!” 


CHAPTER XV. 

THIE DAWN OF A NEW ERA. 


D eprived of his gun, very much shaken, 
wounded in feelings, the Black-and-Tan 
.picked himself up, and turned savagely upon 
his assailant. Seeing that it was a woman his 
rage know no bounds — apparently. Foaming 
and cursing, he rushed at her. But when he 
found himself gazing into the muzzle of his own 
weapon, he ceased his forward movement right 
suddenly, but continued his unprintable and 
scurrilous invective. Eileen, listening above, 
crimsoned and put her hands to her ears. 

Joe grew dangerously angry. 

‘ ‘ This is too much ! ’ ^ he exclaimed, and, before 
any one in the room could realize it, he sprang 
upon the window-sill, let himself down support- 
ing himself by his hands, and while Eileen 
rushed forward to restrain him, dropped down 
into the blazing embers. He alighted in the 
flames with the grace and ease of a panther; 
kicked right and left, sending the sparks and 
shavings flying, picked up two burning embers, 
threw them at the two soldiers whose eyes were 
glued on the flower-woman’s gun, and dashed 
pell-mell for George Hill. 

Catching that foul-tongued blasphemer by the 
215 


216 


t)N THE RUN 


shoulders, he gave the fellow a jerk that brought 
him swinging around. 

‘‘You flannel-mouthed rat!’’ Joe exploded. 
‘ ‘ To talk in that way to a helpless old woman ! 
You call yourself a soldier? Come on, put up 
your fists. If you were twice my strength, I am 
going to give you the worst heating you ever 
got. ’ ’ 

Then Joe flew at him, hammer and tongs. The 
fellow put up his fists. But he was beaten 
before a blow was struck. He was cowed. Joe’s 
anger was awe-inspiring. Upon the man’s prac- 
tically unprotected face, Joe rained blow after 
blow. Presently, the miserable Black-and-Tan 
put up his opened hands to cover his face. But 
even that availed not. Then, he turned and ran. 
Joe was after him at once, after him, upon him, 
and bore him to the ground. 

“I surrender,” quavered the soldier. 

“That’s all very well,” panted Joe. “But 
you come back with me and apologize to the 
woman you insulted.” 

Policeman fashion, Joe conducted his con- 
quered foe to the flower-woman’s side. Neither 
Joe, nor his captive, noticed an approaching 
vehicle ; but the Stormy Petrel did. She relaxed 
at once, and as the soldier, repeating after Joe, 
said “I apologize for conduct unbecoming even 
a Black-and-Tan,” she uncocked the gun and 
threw it over the hedge behind her. Joe was, 
at the moment, about to say a final word to his 
victim, when, a fierce gleam in her eye, the 
woman jumped past him towards the house. 


A NEW ERA 


217 


The boy turned sharply, and received in that 
moment the shock of his life. 

The two remaining soldiers, upon the Stormy 
PetrePs throwing away her gun, had started 
forward to make a dead set on her. What was 
their amazement when she sprang upon them, 
.and holding one in each hand, knocked their 
heads together. Joe started at once to her res- 
cue; but it was unnecessary; the defenceless 
woman, with two stout blows, sent both warriors 
Jo earth, and even as they fell, the door opened, 
and out poured the whole party of defenders — 
Michael, the four Sinn Feiners, Eileen and Mrs. 
Desmond, and the maid servants. 

‘‘Look Joe, look!’’ came the cry from them, 
as they pointed up the road. 

Joe looked. A large machine was speeding 
towards them — a large automobile, flying from 
it the flag of Ireland ! 

‘ ‘ Hurrah ! ’ ’ cried Joe. “ Three cheers for the 
flag.” 

The three cheers, given lustily, were still 
speeding with the velocity of sound towards 
Tuam, when Joe turned to the Stormy Petrel. 

“You’re a wonder!” he said, grasping her 
hands warmly, in answer to which the Stormy 
Petrel threw her arms about his neck, and im- 
printed a kiss upon Joe’s lips. 

“0, I say,” protested Joe. “This is so sud- 
den, you know. I — oh — 

“Sure, I’m no woman at all, Joe: I’m your 
Uncle Bernard Daly.” ^ 

Joe’s eyes bulged, his lips parted, his hands 


218 


ON THE RUN 


fell limp, sheer astonishment took possession of 
his features. He tried to speak, but could not. 
He was, in a sense, paralyzed. 

‘‘Joe, Joe!’’ cried a shrill voice that brought 
him back to his normal self. Before he could 
well turn, the owner of that voice, little Maureen, 
jumped into his arms, and saluted precisely in 
the same way as had his Uncle Bernard. 

Before Joe had an opportunity to grow em- 
barrassed, Father Dalton and John McGroarty 
were shaking his hands, the giant athlete put- 
ting so much strength into this manifestation 
of cordiality as to bring Maureen tumbling to 
the earth. 

Then there ensued a joyous babel, out of 
which the young American gradually gathered 
‘the information, that a Truce had been called, 
that it would begin at twelve o’clock of that very 
day, that the curfew was over, and that every 
Irishman on the run could sleep from that day 
forth in his own home. 

“And,” said Father Dalton, “you are free, 
Joe. No man in Ireland dare touch you. The 
day after tomorrow you go back to Cincinnati.” 

“Where’s my Uncle Bernard?” asked the 
boy, looking dazed — as indeed he was. 

“Here you are, Joe,” answered an ascetic- 
featured young man giving the boy another hug. 
“I withdrew to throw away forever the costume 
of the flower-woman. Do you know that I re- 
cognized you as my nephew when I first met 
you at your entrance into Dublin? I saw in 


A NEW ERA 


219 


your face a family resemblance, and your ini- 
tials on your luggage made me sure/^ 

^^But why in the world didn’t you make your- 
self known? 

‘‘I couldn’t, my boy. I was employed on a 
strange and delicate mission for Ireland. To 
do it, I was to create the impression that I was 
either dead, or had left the country. Of course, 
my superiors had no idea that you were coming 
over to see me. Otherwise they might not have 
put me under an order to reveal my identity to 
no one under any conditions. I was released 
of that obligation only three hours ago; but I 
didn’t have time to tell you till now. But here 
comes the District Inspector from Galway. He 
has something to say.” 

‘‘Mrs. Desmond,” said the Inspector, “our 
Black-and-Tans have a record which no amount 
of white-washing can make decent. But I beg 
you, ma’am, and I beg you, Joe, not to saddle 
the enormities of these three deserters upon the 
Crown forces. They slipped away from bar- 
racks one week ago, to carouse. Every outrage 
they have effected is unauthorized. I am now 
taking them off in irons to Galway. I apologize 
humbly, and black as our record is, the most of 
the outrages of our men represent not the wish 
of our government, but their own lawlessness.” 

“But why in the name of common sense,” 
asked Father Dalton, “did the English govern- 
ment send such fellows to Ireland?” 

“Because, Father, whenever our government 
tries to deal with the Irish, all its stupidity 


220 


ON THE RUN 


comes into play. We have never learned how 
to deal with the Irish.’’ 

^‘But yon are going to learn how this time. 
Yon ’ll learn that lesson,” continned Father Dal- 
ton, “when yon give Ireland, Holy Ireland, her 
freedom.” 

“I hope so, Father.” 

“Well, good-bye. Inspector. In the name of 
McGroarty and Manreen, I wish to thank yon 
for bringing ns along. Yon know, Joe,” he pro- 
ceeded, tnrning to the yonth, “we were to have 
got here from Galway this afternoon by train. 
Bnt when we arrived at Galway, and we learned 
that yon had been captnred by those deserters 
and escaped, and when the Inspector said that 
yon were probably in the honse which they in- 
tended to bnrn down — ” 

^ ^ How did the Inspector know all that ? ’ ’ asked 
Joe. 

“He didn’t. The news abont yon came from 
the Connemara hills. In fact, Joe, there’s little 
yon did since reaching Dnblin that we don’t 
know. When yonr Uncle Bernard, on acconnt 
of his dnties, was nnable to watch over yonr 
■safety, there were others nnder his gnidance 
who took his place. Yon have been watched 
and gnarded as thongh yon were a prince of 
royal blood. It was Bernard who tronnced Hill 
after he arrested yon. He nearly smashed his 
knnckles on the fellow. Yonr Uncle has been 
near yon many a time when yon little dreamed 
it. In his disgnise and ont of it, he has denied 
himself sleep and rest to secnre yonr safety. 


A NEW ERA 


221 


It was the Inspector, though, who knew that 
this house was to be destroyed. Mrs. Desmond 
had despatched to him to protest. He was 
about to start when we met him, and we all got 
here just in time to he late.’^ 

Mrs. Desmond, who had gone into the house, 
now reappeared. 

‘‘Sure, you all need a good breakfast. It will 
be ready in five minutes, and it will be the last 
meal I ever serve in this house. 

“Where are you going!” asked Joe. 

“To Dublin, of course, to see you off.” 

Joe had been chatting and joking on deck for 
over an hour with Father Dalton, Eileen, Mrs. 
Desmond, John McGroarty, and his little daugh- 
ter. All were in the highest good humor. No 
one seemed to realize the imminency of that 
sweetest of all sorrows, parting. 

When the signal was given for all non- 
passengers to leave the ship, Joe bade them 
fareweU bravely, till he came to Eileen. 

She took his hand smiling ; but as he held hers 
momentarily in his, her lips quivered, and she 
broke into a passion of grief. 

“But I^m coming back, Eileen,” he whis- 
pered, controlling with no slight effort his voice. 

“When, Joe!” 

“In a few years, Eileen, when IVe finished 
my studies, and become, please God, a man. And 
the memory of you will help me to be a man, 
clean and decent. And, Eileen, I’m coming back 


222 


ON THE RUN 


for you. I know I^m horribly conceited. I’m 
not worthy to look you in the face — ” 

‘‘You are, and you’re not conceited.” 
“Anyhow, with God’s blessing, I’m coming 
back for you. Do you understand ? ’ ’ 

“Joe,” she said smiling through her tears, 
reflecting at the moment in her face the joy- 
sadness of Ireland, “it may be five or ten or 
any number of years, but ever, ever, ever. I’ll 
pray,” — ^here her face went rosy-red, — “and 
wait for you.” 


THE END 


PSINTED BY BkKZIGBK BbOTHBRS, NeW YoUC 


BOOKS OF DOCTRINE, INSTRUCTION, 
DEVOTION, MEDITATION, BIOGRAPHY, 
NOVELS, JUVENILES, ETC. 

PUBLISHED BY 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 


CINCINNATI NEW YORK CHICAGO 

343 Main St. 36-38 Barclay St. 205-207 W. Washington 9 t. 

Books not marked net will be sent postpaid on receipt of the advertised price. 
Books marked net are such where ten pier cent must be added for postage. Thus 
a book advertised at net $1.00 will be sent postpaid on receipt of $1.10. 

I. INSTRUCTION, DOCTRINE, APOLOGETICS, CONTROVERSY, 

EDUCATIONAL 


AMERICAN PRIEST, THE. ScHMmT. 
net, $1.50. 

ANECDOTES AND EXAMPLES IL- 
LUSTRATING THE CATHOLIC 
CATECHISM. Spirago. net, $2.75. 
ART OF PROFITING BY OUR 
FAULTS. Tissot. net, $0.75. 

BOY SAVERS’ GUIDE. Quin, S.J. 
net, $2.50. 

CATECHISM EXPLAINED, THE. 

Spirago- Clarke, net, $3.75. 
CATHOLIC AMERICAN, THE. 

Schmidt, net, $1.50. 

CATHOLIC BELIEF. Faadi Bruno. 

Paper, $0.25; cloth, net, $0.90. 
CATHOLIC CEREMONIES AND 
EXPLANATION OF THE ECCLE- 
SIASTICAL YEAR. Durand. 
Paper, *$0.45; cloth, net, $0.90. 
CATHOLIC HOME ANNUAL. $0.35* 
CATHOLIC PRACTICE AT CHURCH 
AND AT HOME. Klauder. Paper, 
*$0.45; cloth, net, $0.90. 
CATHOLIC’S READY ANSWER, 
THE. Hill, S.J. net, $2.00. 
CATHOLIC’S WORK IN THE 
WORLD. Husslein, S.J. net, $1.50. 
CEREMONIAL FOR ALTAR BOYS. 

Britt, O.S.B. net, $0.60. 
CHARACTERISTICS AND RELIG- 
ION OF MODERN SOCIALISM. 
Ming, S.J. i2mo. net, $2.50. 
CHILD PREPARED FOR FIRST 
COMMUNION. DE ZULUETA, S. J. 
Paper, *$0.08. 

CHRISTIAN APOLOGETICS. De- 
vivier-Messmer. net, $3.50. 


CHRISTIAN EDUCATION. O’Con- 
nell. net, $1.00. 

CHRISTIAN FATHER. Cramer, net, 
$0.85. 

CHRISTIAN MOTHER. Cramer, net, 
$0.85. 

CHURCH AND THE PROBLEMS OF 
TODAY, THE. Schmidt, net, $1.50. 

CORRECT THING FOR CATH- 
OLICS. Bugg. net, $1.25. 

DIVINE GRACE. Wirth. net, $1.25 

EDUCATION OF OUR GIRLS. 
Shields, net, $1.50. 

EXPLANATION OF BIBLE HIS- 
TORY. Nash, net, $2.50. 

EXPLANATION OF CATHOLIC 
MORALS. Stapleton, net, $1.25. 

EXPLANATION OF THE BALTI- 
MORE CATECHISM. Kinkead. 
net, l$i.so. 

EXPLANATION OF THE COM- 
MANDMENTS. Rolfus. net, $0.90. 

EXPLANATION OF THE CREED. 
Rolfus. net, $0.90. 

EXPLANATION OF GOSPELS AND 
OF CATHOLIC WORSHIP. Lam- 
bert-Brennan. Paper, *$0.45; cloth, 
net, $0.90. 

EXPLANATION OF THE MASS. 
CocHEM. net, $1.25. 

EXPLANATION OF THE HOLY SAC- 
RAMENTS. Rolfus. net, $0.90. 

EXPLANATION OF THE PRAYERS 
AND CEREMONIES OF THE 
MASS. Lanslots, O.S.B. $1.25. 

EXPLANATION OF THE SALVE 
REGINA. St. Alphonsus. $1.25. 


l-OO 


EXTREME UNCTION. Paper, *$0.12. 

FOLLOWING OF CHRIST, THE. 
Plain edition. With reflections. $0.65 

FOUNDATION OF TRUE MORAL- 
ITY. Slater, S.J. net, $1.25. 

FUNDAMENTALS OF THE RELIG- 
IOUS LIFE. SCHLEtJTER, S.J. «,$0.7S. 

FUTURE LIFE, THE. Sasia, S.J. net, 

GENERAL CONFESSION MADE 
EASY. Konings, C.SS.R. Cloth, 
*$0.25. 

GENTLEMAN, A. Egan, net, $1.25. 

GIFT OF THE KING. By a Religious. 
net, $0.60. 

GLORIES AND TRIUMPHS OF THE 
CATHOLIC CHURCH, net, $3.50. 

GOD, CHRIST, AND THE CHURCH. 
Hammer, O.F.M. net, $3.50. 

GOFFINE’S DEVOUT INSTRUC- 
TIONS ON THE EPISTLES AND 
GOSPELS FOR THE SUNDAYS 
AND HOLY-DAYS, net, $1.75. 

GREAT ENCYCLICAL LETTERS OF 
POPE LEO XIII. net, $3.50. 

GUIDE FOR SACRISTANS, net, $i .50. 

HANDBOOK OF THE CHRISTIAN 
RELIGION. WiLMERS, S.J. n, ^$2.50. 

HEAVEN OPEN TO SOULS. Semple, 
S.J. net, $2.75. 

HOME WORLD, THE. Doyle, S.J. 
Paper, $0.25; cloth, net, $1.25. 

HOW TO COMFORT THE SICK. 
ELrebs, C.SS.R. net, $1.25. 

HOW TO MAKE THE MISSION. By 
a Dominican Father. Paper, *$0.12. 

INSTRUCTIONS ON THE COM- 
MANDMENTS OF GOD AND 
THE SACRAMENTS OF THE 
CHURCH. St. Alphonsus Ligltori. 
net, $0,85. 

INTRODUCTION TO A DEVOUT 
LIFE. St. Francis de Sales, net, 
$1.00. 

LADY, A. Bugg. net, $1.25. 

LAWS OF THE KING. By a ReUgious. 
net, $0.60. 

; LESSONS OF THE SAVIOUR. By a 
Religious, net, $0.60. 

LITTLE ALTAR BOY’S MANUAL. 

MANUAL OF SELF-KNOWLEDGE 
AND CHRISTIAN PERFECTION, 
A. Henry, C.SS.R. $0.75. 

MANUAL OF THEOLOGY FOR THE 
LAITY. Geiermann, C.SS.R. Paper, 
*%o .45; cloth, net, $0.90. 

MASS AND VESTMENTS OF THE 

• CATHOLIC CHURCH. Walsh, net, 
$300. 


MASS-SERVER’S CARD. Per doz. 
net, $0.50. 

MORALITY OF MODERN SOCIAL- 
ISM. Ming, S.J. net, $2.50. 

NARROW WAY, THE. Geiermann, 
C.SS.R. net, $0.90. 

OUT TO WIN. Straight Talks to Boys 
on the W'ay to Manhood. Conroy, 
S.J. net, $1.50. 

PASTORAL LETTERS. McFaxjl. net, 

PRINCIPAL CATHOLIC PRAC- 
TICES. Schmidt, net, $1.50. 

PRODIGAL SON, THE. Muller, 
C.SS.R. net, |l$2.oo. 

QUEEN’S FESTIVALS, THE. By a 
Religious, net, $0.60. 

REASONABLENESS OF CATHOLIC 
CEREMONIES AND PRACTICES. 
Burke, net, $0.75. 

RELIGIOUS STATE, THE. St. Al- 
phonsus. net. $0.75. 

SACRAMENTALS OF THE HOLY 
CATHOLIC CHURCH. Lambing. 
Paper, *$0.45; Cloth, net, $0.90. 

SCAPULAR MEDAL. THE. Geier- 
mann, C.SS.R. Paper, *$0.08. 

SHORT CONFERENCES ON THE 
SACRED HEART. Brinkmeyer. 
net, $1.25. 

SHORT COURSE IN CATHOLIC 
DOCTRINE. Paper, *$0.12. 

SHORT STORIES ON CHRISTIAN 
DOCTRINE, net, $1.75. 

SOCIALISM: ITS THEORETICAL 
BASIS AND PRACTICAL APPLI- 
CATION. Cathrein - Gettelman. 
net, $2.75. 

SOCIAL ORGANIZATION IN PAR- 
ISHES. Garesche, S. J. net, 
$2.75. 

SPIRITUAL PEPPER AND SALT. 
Stang. Paper, *$0.45; cloth, (0.90. 

STORIES OF THE MIRACLES OF 
OUR LORD. By a Religious. n,^.6o. 

STORY OF THE FRIENDS OF JESUS. 
By a Religious, net, $0.60. 

SUNDAY-SCHOOL DIRECTOR’S 
GUIDE. Sloan, net, $1.50. 

SUNDAY-SCHOOL TEACHER’S 
GUIDE. Sloan, net, $1.25. 

SURE WAY TO A HAPPY MAR- 
RIAGE. Taylor, net, $0.85. 

TALKS TO NURSES. Spalding, S.J. 
net, $1.50. 

TALKS TO PARENTS. Conroy, S.J. 
net, $1.50. 

TALKS WITH THE LITTLE ONES 
ABOUT THE APOSTLES’ CREED. 
By a Religious, net, $0.60. 


2 


TRAINING OF CHILDREN AND OF 
GIRLS IN THEIR TEENS. Cecilia. 
net , $1.25. 

TRUE POLITENESS. Demore. net , 
$1.25. 

VOCATION. Van Tricht-Connife. 
Paper, *$0.12. 


VOCATIONS EXPLAINED. Cut dush, 

*$0.I2. 

WAY OF INTERIOR PEACE. de 
Lehen, SJ. ne/, $2,25. 

WHAT THE CHURCH TEACHES. 

Drury. Paper, *$0.45; cloth, «c<, $0.90. 
WHAT TIMES! WHAT MORALSl 
Semple, S.J. Cloth, net , $0.75. 


II. DEVOTION, MEDITATION, SPIRITUAL READING, 
PRAYER-BOOKS 


ABANDONMENT; or Absolute Sur- 
render of Self to Divine Providence. 
Caussade, S.J. net , $0.75. 
ADORATION OF THE BLESSED 
SACRAMENT. Tesniere. nei ,$ x . 25 . 
BLESSED SACRAMENT BOOK. 
Prayer-Book by Father Lasance. 
Im. leather. $2.25. 

BLOSSOMS OF THE CROSS. Giehrl. 
net , $ 1 . 75 - 

BOOK OF THE PROFESSED. 3 vols. 

Elach, «ei, $1.25 « 

BREAD OF LIFE, THE. William. 
net , $1.35. 

CATHOLIC GIRL’S GUIDE, THE. 
Prayer-Book by Father Lasance. 
Seal grain cloth, stiff covers, red edges, 
$1.2$. Im. leather, limp, red edges, 
$1.50; gold edges, $2.00. Real leather, 
limp, gold edges, $2.50. 
CHARACTERISTICS OF TRUE DE- 
VOTION. Grou, S.J. net , $1.00. 
DEVOTION TO THE SACRED 
HEART OF JESUS. Nolden, S.J. 
net , $1.75. 

DEVOTIONS AND PRAYERS BY 
ST. ALPHONSUS. Ward, net , $1.50. 
DEVOTIONS AND PRAYERS FOR 
THE SICK ROOM. Krebs. n,$i.2S. 
DEVOTIONS TO THE SACRED 
HEART FOR THE FIRST FRIDAY 
OF EVERY MONTH. Huguet. 
net , $0.75. 

DOMINICAN MISSION BOOK. By a 
Dominican Father. $1.00. 
EPITOME OF THE PRIESTLY 
LIFE, AN. Arvisenet.-O’Sulli- 
VAN. net . $2.50. 

EUCHARISTIC LILIES. Maery. 
net , |I$i.so. 

EUCHARISTIC SOUL ELEVATIONS. 

Stadelman, C.S.Sp. net , $0,60. 
FIRST SPIRITUAL AID TO THE 
SICK. McGrath, net , $0.60. 
FLOWERS OF THE CLOISTER. 

Poems. DE La Motte. net , $i. 7 ^ 
FOR FREQUENT COMMUNICANTS. 
Roche, S.J. Paper, *0.12. 


GLORIES OF MARY. St. Alphon- 
sus. net , $1.75. 

GLORIES OF THE SACRED HEART. 

Hausherr S.J. net , $ 1 . 7 '^. 
GREETINGS TO THE CHRIST- 
CHILD. Poems, net , $1.00. 

HELP FOR THE POOR SOULS. 

Ackermann. $0.90. 

HELPS TO A SPIRITUAL LIFE. 

ScHNEroER. net , $1.25. ' 

HIDDEN TREASURE, THE. St. 

Leonard, net , $0.75. 

HOLY HOUR, THE. Keiley. i6mo, 

*$O.I2. 

HOLY HOUR OF ADORATION. 
Stang. net , $0.90. 

HOLY VIATICUM OF LIFE AS OF 
DEATH. Dever. net , $1.25. 
IMITATION OF THE SACRED 
HEART. Arnoudt. net , $1.75. 

IN HEAVEN WE KNOW OUR OWN. 

Blot, S.J. net , $0.75. 

INTERIOR OF JESUS AND MARY. 

Grou, S.J. 2 vols. net . $3.00. 
JESUS CHRIST, THE KING OF OUR 
HEARTS. Lepicier, O.S.M. net , 
$1.50. 

LIFE’S LESSONS. Garesche, S.J. 
net , $1.50. 

LITTLE ALTAR BOYS’ MANUAL 

LITTLE COMMUNICANTS’ 
PRAYER-BOOK. Sloan. $0.25. 
LITTLE MANUAL OF ST AN- 
THONY. Lasance. net , $0.25. 
LITTLE MANUAL OF ST. JOSEPH. 
Lings, ne/, $0.25. 

LITTLE MANUAL OF ST. RITA. 
McGrath. $0.90. 

LITTLE MASS BOOK, THE. Lynch. 
Paper, *$0.08. 

LITTLE MONTH OF THE SOULS IN 
PURGATORY, net , $0.60. 

LITTLE OFFICE OF THE BLESSED 
VIRGIN MARY. In Latin and 
English, net , $1.75; in Latin only, 
net , |fe.2S. 


3 


LITTLE OFFICE OF THE IMMAC- 
ULATE CONCEPTION. Paper, 
*$o.o8. 

MANNA OF THE SOUL. Vest- 
pocket Edition. A little Book of 
Prayer for Men and Women. By 
Rev. F. X. Lasance, Oblong, 32mo. 

M^^NA OF THE SOUL. A Book of 
Prayer for Men and Women. By 
Rev. F. X. Lasance. Extra Large 
Type Edition, 544 pages, i6mo. $1.50. 

MANNA OF THE SOUL. Prayer- 
Book by Rev. F. X. Lasance. Thin 
Edition. Im. leather. $1.10. 

MANNA OF THE SOUL. Prayer-Book. 
By Rev. F. X. Lasance. Thm Edition 
with Epistles and Gospels. $1.50- 

MANUAL OF THE HOLY EUCHAR- 
IST. Lasance. Imitation leather, 
limp, red edges, net, $1.25. 

MANUAL OF THE HOLY NAME, 

M^UAL OF THE SACRED HEART, 
NEW, $1.00. 

MANUAL OF ST. ANTHONY, net, 
$o-9o- 

MARINE COROLLA. Poems. Hnx, 
C.P. net, $ 1 . 75 * 

MARY, HELP OF CHRISTIANS. 
Hamper, O.F.M., net, $3.50. 

MASS DEVOTIONS AND READINGS 
ON THE MASS. Lasance. Im. 
leather, limp, red edges, net, $1.25 

MEANS OF GRACE. Brennan, net, 

%K,00. 

MEDITATIONS FOR ALL THE DAYS 
OF THE YEAR. Hamon, S.S. s 
vols., net, $8.75. 

MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY 
IN THE MONTH. Nepvep, S.J. 
net, $1.25. 

MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY 
IN THE YEAR. Baxter, S.J. net, 
$2.00 

MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY 
IN THE YEAR ON THE LIFE OF 
OUR LORD. VERCRxrsfssE, S.J. 2 
vols. net, $4.50. 

MEDITATIONS FOR THE USE 
OF THE SECULAR CLERGY. 
Chaignon, S.J. 2 vols. net, $7.00. 

MEDITATIONS FOR THE USE OF 
SEMINARIANS AND PRIESTS. 
Vol. I: Fundamental Truths. Vol. II: 
Christian Virtues. Vol. Ill: Priestly 
Life. Vols. IV and V: Liturgical Year. 
Vol. VI: The Blessed Virgin. The 
Saints. By Very Rev. L. Bran- 
chereau, SS. Each, net, |l$i.2S. 


MEDITATIONS ON THE LAST 
WORDS FROM THE CROSS. 
PERRAxm. net, IlSi.oo. 

MEDITATIONS ON THE LIFE 
THE TEACHING AND THE 
PASSION OF JESUS CHRIST. 
Ilg- Clarke. 2 vols. net, $5.00. 

MEDITATIONS ON THE MYSTER-, 
lES OF OUR HOLY FAITH. ‘ 
Barrattd, S.J. 2 vols.. net, $4.50. 

MEDITATIONS ON THE PASSION 
OF OUR LORD, net, $0.85. 

MEDITATIONS ON THE SUFFER- 
INGS OF JESUS CHRIST. Per- 
LNALDO. net, $1.25. 

MISSION-BOOK OF THE REDEMP- 
TORIST FATHERS. $0.90. 

MISSION BOOK FOR THE MAR- 
RIED. Girardey, C.SS.R. $0.90. 

MISSION BOOK FOR THE SINGLE. 
Girardey, C.SS.R. $0.90. 

MISSION REMEMBRANCE OF THE 
REDEMPTORIST FATHERS. 
Geiermann, C.SS.R. $0.90. 

MOMENTS BEFORE THE TABER- 
NACLE. Russell, S.J. net, $0.60. 

MORE SHORT SPIRITUAL READ- 
INGS FOR MARY’S CHILDREN. 
Cecilia, net, $1.25. 

MOST BELOVED WOMAN, THE. 
Garesche, S.J. net, $1.25. 

MY PRAYER-BOOK. Happiness in 
Goodness. Reflections, Counsels, 
Prayers, and Devotions. By Rev. 
F. X. Lasance. i6mo. Seal grain 
cloth, stiff covers, square comers, red 
edges, $1.25. Imitation leather, limp, 
round corners, red edges. $1.50; gold 
edges, $2.00. Real Leather, limp, 
round corners, gold edges, $2.50. 

NEW MISSAL FOR EVERY DAY, 
THE. Complete Missal in English 
for Every Day in the Year. With 
Introduction Notes, and a Book of 
Prayer. By Rev. F. X. Lasance. 
Oblong, 32mo., Im. leather. $2.25. 

NEW TESTAMENT. i2mo edition. 
Large type. Cloth, net, $1.75; 32mo 
edition. Flexible cloth, net, $0.45.; 
Stiff cloth, net, $0.80; Amer. seal, 
gold edges, net, $1.35. 

NEW TESTAMENT AND CATHO- 
LIC PRAYER-BOOK COMBINED. 
net, $0.85. 

OFFICE OF HOLY WEEK, COM- 
PLETE. Latin and English. Cut 
flush, net, $0.40; silk cloth, net, $0.60; 
Am. seal, red ^ges, net, $1.25; Am. 
seal, gold edges, net, $1.30. 


4 


OUR FAVORITE DEVOTIONS. 
Lings, net, $i.oo. 

OUR FAVORITE NOVENAS. Lings. 
net, $1.00. 

OUTLINE MEDITATIONS. Cecilia. 
net, $1.75- 

PATHS OF GOODNESS, THE. Ga- 
RESCHE, S.J. net, $1.2$. 

POCKET PRAYER-BOOK. Cloth. 
net, $0.25. 

POLICEMEN’S AND FIREMEN’S 
COMPANION. McGrath. $0.35. 

PRAYER-BOOK FOR RELIGIOUS. 
Lasance. i6mo. Imitation leather, 
limp, red edges, net, $2.00. 

PRAYERS FOR OUR DEAD. Mc- 
Grath. Cloth, $0.35; im. leather, 

$0.75. 

PRISONER OF LOVE. Prayer-Book 
by Father Lasance. Im. leather, 
limp, red edges, $1.50. 

PRIVATE RETREAT FOR RELIG- 
IOUS. Geiermann,C.SS.R. net, $2 . so. 

REFLECTIONS FOR RELIGIOUS. 
Lasance. net, $2.00. 

REJOICE IN THE LORD. Prayer- 
Book by Father Lasance. $1.75. 

ROSARY, THE CROWN OF MARY. 
By a Dominican Father. i6mo, paper 

RULES OF LIFE FOR THE PASTOR 
OF SOULS. Slater-Rauch. net, 

SACRED HEART BOOK. Prayer- 
Book by Father Lasance. Im. 
leather, limp, red edges, $1.25. 

SACRED HEART STUDIED IN THE 
SACRED SCRIPTURES. Sain- 
TRAiN. net. $1.25. 

SACRIFICE OF THE MASS WORTH- 
ILY CELEBRATED. Chaignon, 
S.J. net, $2.75. 

SECRET OF SANCTITY. Crasset, 
S.J. net, $1.25. 

SERAPHIC GUIDE, THE. $1.25. 

SHORT MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY 
DAY. Lasausse. net, $1.25. 

SHORT VISITS TO THE BLESSED 
SACRAMENT. Lasance. $0.25. 

SODALIST’S VADE MECUM, net, 
$0.90. 

SOLDIERS’ AND SAILORS’ COM- 
PANION. McGrath. Vest-pocket 
shape, silk cloth or khaki. $0.35. 

SOUVENIR OF THE NOVITIATE. 
Taylor, net, $0.8'?. 

SPIRIT OF SACRIFICE, THE, AND 
THE LIFE OF SACRIFICE IN 
THE RELIGIOUS STATE. Giraud. 
net, $3.00. 


SPIRITUAL CONSIDERATIONS. 

Buckler, O.P. Tiet, $1.25. 
SPOILING THE DIVINE FEAST. 

DE ZULUETA, S.J. Paper, *^.08; 
STORIES FOR FIRST COMMUNI- 
CANTS. Keller, net, $0.60. 
SUNDAY MISSAL, THE. Lasance. 

Im. leather, limp, red edges, $1.50. 
THING§ IMMORTAL, THE. Ga- 
resche, S.J. net, $1.25. 

THOUGHTS ON THE RELIGIOUS 
LIFE. Lasance. Im. leather, limp, 
red edges, net, $2.00.. 

THOUGHTS AND AFFECTIONS ON 
THE PASSION OF JESUS CHRIST 
FOR EVERY DAY OF THE YEAR. 
Bergamo, net, $3.25. 

TRUE SPOUSE OF CHRIST. Liguoei. 
net, $1.75. 

VENERATION OF THE BLESSED 
VIRGIN. Rohner-Brennan. net, 

vigil' hour, the. Ryan, S.J. 
Paper, *$0.12. 

VISITS TO JESUS IN THE TABER- 
NACLE. Lasance. Im. leather, limp, 
red edges, $1.75. 

VISITS TO THE MOST HOLY SAC- 
RAMENT. Liguori. net, $0.90. 
WAY OF THE CROSS. Paper, *$0.08. 
WAY OF THE CROSS. lUustrated. 
Method of St. Alphonsus Liguori. 
*$0.25. 

WAY OF THE CROSS, THE. 
Very large-type edition. Method of St. 
Alphonsus Liguori. *$0.25. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Eucharistic 
method. *$0.25. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. By a Jesuit 
Father. *$0.25. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Method of Sx. 

Francis of Assisi. *$0.25. 

WITH GOD. Prayer-Book by Father 
Lasance. Im. leather, bmp, red edges, 

$1.75. 

YOUNG MAN’S GUIDE, THE. 
Prayer-Book by Father Lasance. 
Seal grain cloth, stiff covers, red edges, 
$1.25. Im. leather, limp, red edges, 
$i-5o» gold edges, $2.00. 

YOUR lOTERESTS ETERNAL. 

Garesche', S.J. net, $1.25. 

YOUR l^EIGHBOR AND YOU. Ga- 
RESCHE, S.J. net, $1.25. 

YOUR OWN HEART. Garesch^, S.J. 
net, $1.25, 

YOUR SOUL’S SALVATION. 
Garesche, S.J. net, $1.25. 


5 


m. THEOLOG'y, LITURGY, HOLY SCRIPTURE, PHILOSOPHY, 
SCIENCE, CANON LAW 


ALTAR PRAYERS. Edition A: Eng- 
lish and Latin, net, $1.75. Edition B: 
German-English-Latin, net, $2.00. 

ANNOUNCEMENT BOOK. i2mo. 
net, $2.50. 

BAPTISMAL RITUAL. i2mo. net 
$1.50. 

BENEDICENDA. Schulte, net ,% 2 .^%. 

BREVIOR SYNOPSIS THEOLOGI^ 
DOGMATIC.^. Tanquerey, S.S. 
Small i2mo. net, ||$2.oo. 

BREVIOR SYNOPSIS THEOLOGLE 
MORALIS ET PASTORALIS. Tan- 
querey, S.S. Small i2mo. «c/, ll$2.oo. 

BURIAL RITUAL. Cloth, net, $1.50; 
sheepskin, net, $2.50; black morocco, 
net, $3.50. 

CASES OF CONSCIENCE. Slater, 
S.J. 2 vols. -net, $6.00. 

CHRIST’S TEACHING CONCERN- 
ING DIVORCE. Gigot. net, 1I$2.7S. 

CLERGYMAN’S HANDBOOK OF 
LAW. Scanlon, net, $2.25. 

COMBINATION RECORD FOR 
SMALL PARISHES. nel,%&.oo. 

COMMENTARY ON THE PSALMS. 
Berry, nd, $3.50. 

COMPENDIUM JURIS REGULAR- 
lUM. Bachofen. net, 1I$3.so. 

COMPENDIUM SACRiELITURGLE. 
Wapelhorst, O.F.M. nd, 1[$3.oo. 

ECCLESIASTICAL DICTIONARY. 
Thein. 4to, half mor. net, $6.50. 

GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE HOLY SCRIP- 
TURES. Gigot. -nd, 1I$4.oo. 

GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE HOLY SCRIP- 
TURES. Abridged edition. Gigot. 
nd, ^$2.75. 

HOLY BIBLE, THE. Large type, handy 
size. Cloth, $2.00. 

JESUS LIVING IN THE PRIEST. 
Millet, S.J.-Byrne. nd, $3.25. 

UBER STATUS ANIMARUM, or 
Parish Census Book. Large edition, 
size, 14 X 10 inches. 100 Families. 
200 pp., half leather, net, $7.00; 200 
Families. 400 pp. half leather, -net, 
$8.00; Pocket Edition, net, $0.50. 

MANUAL OF HOMILETICS AND 
CATECHETICS. Schuech-Lueber- 
MANN. net, $2.25. 

MANUAL OF MORAL THEOLOGY. 
Slater, S.J. 2 vols. nd, $8.00. 

MARRIAGE LEGISLATION IN THE 
NEW CODE. Ayrinhac, S.S. net, 
$2.50. 


MARRIAGE RITUAL. Cloth, gilt 
edges, nd, $1.50; sheepskin, gih 
edges, net, $2.50; real morocco, gilt 
edges, nd, $3.50. 

MESSAGE OF MOSES AND MODERN 
HIGHER CRITICISM. Gigot. 
Paper, nd, 1 f$o.is. 

MORAL PRINCIPLES AND MED- 
ICAL PRACTICE. CoppENS, S.J.- 
Spalding, S.J. net, $2.50. 

OUTLINES OF JEWISH HISTORY, 
FROM ABRAHAM TO OUR LORD. 
Gigot. nd, 1I$2.7S. 

OUTLINES OF NEW TESTAMENT 
HISTORY. Gigot. net, 11$2.75. 

PASTORAL THEOLOGY. Stang. net, 
^[$2.25. 

PENAL LEGISLATION IN THE NEW 
CODE OF CANON LAW. Ayrinhac, 
S.S. -net, $3.00. 

PEW COLLECTION AND RECEIPT 
BOOK. Indexed. iiX 8 inches, net, 
$ 3 - 00 . 

PHILOSOPHIA MORALI, DE. Russo, 
S.J. Half leather, net, $2.75. 

PREPARATION FOR MARRIAGE. 
McHugh, O.P. nd, $0.60. 

PRAXIS SYNODALIS. Manuale Sy- 
nod! Diocesanae ac Provincialis Cele- 
brandae. net, $1.00. 

QUESTIONS OF MORAL THEOLOGY. 
Slater, S.J. net, $3.00. 

RECORD OF BAPTISMS. 200 pages, 
700 entries, -net, $7.00. 400 pages, 

1400 entries, net, $9.00. 600 pages, 

2100 entries, net, $12.00. 

RECORD OF CONFIRMATIONS. 
-net, $6.00. 

RECORD OF FIRST COMMUN- 
IONS. net, $6.00. 

RECORD OF INTERMENTS, net, 
$6.00. 

RECORD OF MARRIAGES. Size 
14X 10 inches. 200 pages, 700 entries, 
net, $7.00. 400 pages, 1400 entries, 

net, $9.00. 600 pages, 2100 entries, 
net, $12.00. 

RITUALE COMPENDIOSUM. Cloth, 
nd, $1.25; seal, net, $2.00. 

SANCTUARY BOYS’ ILLUSTRATED 
MANUAL. McCallen, S.S. nd, 

S $i.oo. 

RT HISTORY OF MORAL THE- 
OLOGY. Slater, S.J. nd, $0.75. 
SPECIAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE OLD TESTA- 
MENT. Gigot. Part I. nd, ^$2.75. 
Part H, nd, ^[$3.25. 


6 


SPIRAGO’S METHOD OF CHRIS- 
TIAN DOCTRINE. Messmer. net, 
$2.50. 

SYNOPSIS THEOLOGLE DOGMA- 
TIC/E. Tanquerey. 3 vols. each, 
net, 1!$2.75. 

SYNOPSIS THEOLOGIZE MORALIS 


ET PASTORALIS, Tanquerey,. 
S.S. 3 vols. each, net, li$2.75. 
TEXTUAL CONCORDANCE OF THE- 
HOLY SCRIPTURES. WiUlXAms. 
net, $5.75. 

WHAT CATHOLICS HAVE DONE 
FOR SCIENCE. Brennan. net, 
$1.50. 


IV. SERMONS 


CHRISTIAN MYSTERIES. Bono 
MELLi, D.D.-Byrne. 4 vols., net, 
$9.00. 

EIGHT-MINUTE SERMONS. De- 
MOUY. 2 vols., net, $4.00. 

FUNERAL SERMONS. Wirth. 2 
vols. net, ll$3.oo. 

HOMILIES ON THE COMMON OF 
SAINTS. Bonomeixi-Byrne. 2 vols., 
net, $4.50. 

HOMILIES ON THE EPISTLES AIH> 
GOSPELS. Bonoueuj-Byrne. 4 vols., 
net $9.00. 

MASTER’S WORD, THE, IN THE 
EPISTLES AND GOSPELS. Flynn. 

2 vols., net, $4.00. 

POPULAR SERMONS ON THE CAT- 
ECHISM. Bambyrg-Thursxon, S.J. 

3 vols., net, $8.50. 

SERMONS. Canon Sheehan, net, 

$3.00. 

SERMONS FOR CfflLDREN’S 

MASSES. FRASSiNETn-LiNGS. net, 
$ 2 . 50 . 


SERMONS FOR THE SUNDAYS 
AND CHIEF FESTIVALS OF THE 
ECCLESIASTICAL YEAR. Pott- 
GEissER, S.J. 2 vols., net, $5.00. 

SERMONS ON OUR BLESSED LADY. 
Flynn, net, $2.50. 

SERMONS ON THE BLESSED SAC- 
RAMENT. Schetoer-Lasanc^.. net, 

SE:£SoNS on THE CHIEF CHRIS- 
TIAN VIRTUES. Hunolt-Wirth. 
net, $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE DUTIES OF 
CHRISTIANS. Hunolt-Wirth. 
net, $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE FOUR LAST 
THINGS. Hunolt-Wirth. net ,% 2 . Ts . 

SERMONS ON THE SEVEN DEADLY 
SINS. Hunolt-Wirth. net, $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE VIRTUE 
THE SACRAMENT OF PENANCE. 
Hunolt-Wirth. net, $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE MASS, THE SAC- 
RAMENTS AND THE SACRA- 
MENTALS. Flynn, net, $2.75. 


V. HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, HAGIOLOGY, TRAVEL 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ST. IGNA- 
TIUS LOYOLA. O’Connor, S.J. 
net, $1.75- 

CAMILLUS DE LELLIS. By a 
Sister of Mercy. «e/, $1.75. 

CHILD’S LIFE OF ST. JOAN OF 
ARC. Manndc. net, $1.50. 

GROWTH AND DEVELOPMENT OF 
THE CATHOLIC SCHOOL SYS- 
TEM IN THE UNITED STATES. 
Burns, C.S.C. net, $2.50. 

HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN 
COLLEGE IN ROME. Brann. 
net, ||$2.oo. 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 
CHURCH. Brueoc. 2 vols.jjt, $5.50- 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 
CHURCH. Businger-Brennan. net, 

HI%SrY of THE CATHOLIC 
CHURCH. Businger-Brennan. 
net, t$o. 75 . 


HISTORY OF THE PROTESTANT 
REFORMATION. Cobbett-Gas- 

QUET. net, $1.25. 

HISTORY OF THE MASS. O’Brien. 
net, $2.00. 

HOLINESS OF THE CHURCH IN 
THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 
Kempf, S.J. net, $2.75. 

LIFE OF ST. MARGARET MARY 
ALACOQUE. Illustrated. Bougaud. 
Itct $2 ^ 

LIFE OF CHRIST. Businger-Brkn- 
NAN. Illustrated. Half morocco, gUt 
edges, net, $15.00. 

LIFE OF CHRIST. lUustrated. Bus- 
inger-Mullett. net, I3.50. 

LIFE OF CHRIST. Cochem. net, 

LIf¥ OF ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA. 

Genelli, S.J. net, $1.25. 

LIFE OF MADEMOISELLE LE. 
GRAS, net, $1.25. 


7 


LIFE OF POPE PIUS X. Illustrated. 
net, $3.50. 

LIFE OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN. 
Rohner. net, $1.25. 

LITTLE LIVES OF THE SAINTS 
FOR CHILDREN. Berthold. net, 

LITl^E PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE 
SAINTS. With 400 illustrations. 
net, $2.00. 

LIVES OF THE SAINTS. Butler. 
net, $1.25. 

LOURDES. Clarke, S.J. net, $1.25. 

MARY THE QUEEN. By a Relig- 
ious. net, $o.to. 

MIDDLE AGES, THE. Shahan. net, 
$ 3 - 00 . 

MILL TOWN PASTOR, A. Conroy, 
S.J. net. $1. 75- 

names THAT LIVE IN CATHOLIC 
hearts. Sadlier. net, $1.25. 

OUR OWN ST. RITA. Corcoran, 
O.S.A. net, $1.50. 

PATRON SAINTS FOR CATHOLIC 
YOUTH. Mannix. 3 vols. Each, 
net, $1.25, 

PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE SAINTS. 
With nearly 400 illustrations and over 
600 pages, net, $5.00. 

POPULAR LIFE OF ST. TERESA. 
L’abbe Joseph, net, $1.25. 

PRINCIPLES ORIGIN AND ES- 
TABLISHMENT OF THE CATH- 
OLIC SCHOOL SYSTEM IN THE 


UNITED STATES. Burns, C.S.C 
net, $2.50. 

RAMBLES IN CATHOLIC LANDS. 
Barrett, O.S.B. Illustrated, net, 

$ 3 - 50 . 

ROMA. Pa^n Subterranean and Mod- 
em Rome in Word and Picture. By 
Rev. Albert Kuhn, O.S.B., D.D. 
Preface by Cardinal Gibbons. 617 
pages. 744 illustrations. 48 full-page 
mserts, 3 plans of Rome in colors. 
8^ X 12 inches. Red im. leather, gold 
side. $15.00. 

ROMAN CURIA AS IT NOW EXISTS. 

Martin, S.J. net, $2.50. 

ST. ANTHONY. Ward. ««/, $1.25. 
ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI. Dubois, 
S.M. net, $1.25. 

ST. JOAN OF ARC. Lynch, S.J. lUus- 
trated. net,%2.j$. 

ST. JOHN BERCHMANS. De- 
LEHAYE, S.J.-Seicple, S.J. net, $1.50. 
SAINTS AND PLACES. By 
John Ayscough. Illustrated, net, 
$ 3 - 00 . 

SHORT LIVES OF THE SAINTS. 

Donnelly, net, $0.90. 

STORY OF THE DIVINE CHILD. 

Told for Children. Lings, net, $0.60. 
STORY OF THE ACTS OF THE 
APOSTLES. Lynch, S.J. Illus- 
trated. net, $2.75. 

WOMEN OF CATHOLICITY. Sao- 

LiER. net, $1.25. 


VI. JUVENILES 


FATHER FINN’S BOOKS. 

Each, net, $1.50. 

BOBBY IN MOVIELAND. 
FACING DANGER. 

HIS LUCKIEST YEAR. A Sequel to 
** Lucky Bob.” 

LUCKY BOB. 

PERCY WYNN; OR, MAKING A 
BOY OF HIM. 

TOM PLAYFAIR; OR, MAKING A 
START. 

CLAUDE LIGHTFOOT; OR, HOW 
THE PROBLEM WAS SOLVED. 
HARRY DEE; OR, WORKING IT 
OUT. 

ETHELRED PRESTON; OR, THE 
ADVENTURES OF A NEW- 
COMER. 

THE BEST FOOT FORWARD; 

AND OTHER STORIES. 

CUPID OF CAMPION. 

THAT FOOTBALL GAME, AND 
WHAT CAME OF IT. 


THE FAIRY OF THE SNOWS. 

THAT OFFICE BOY. 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEAR- 
ANCE 

MOSTLY BOYS. SHORT STORIES. 

FATHER SPALDING’S BOOKS. 
Each, net, $1.50. 

SIGNALS FROM THE BAY TREE. 

HELD IN THE EVERGLADES. 

AT THE FOOT OF THE SAND- 
HILLS. 

THE CAVE BY THE BEECH 
FORK 

THE SHERIFF OF THE BEECH 
FORK. 

THE CAMP BY COPPER RIVER. 

THE RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. 

THE MARKS OF THE BEAR 
CLAWS. 

THE OLD MILL ON THE WITH- 
ROSE 

THE SUGAR CAMP AND AFTER. 


8 


AD VENTURE WITH THE APACHES. 
Ferry, net, $0.60. 

ALTHEA. Nirdlinger. net, $1.00. 

AS GOLD IN THE FURNACE. 
Copus, S.J. net, $1.50. 

AS TRUE AS GOLD. Mannk. net, 
$0.60. 

AT THE FOOT OF THE SAND- 
HILLS. Spalding, S.J. net, $1.50. 

BELL FOUNDRY. Schaching, net, 

BERKLEYS, THE. Wight. net, 

BEST FOOT FORWARD, THE. Finn, 
S.J. net, $1.50. 

BETWEEN FRIENDS. Aumerle. 
net, $1.00. 

BISTOURI. Melandri. net, $0.60. 

BLISSYLVANIA POST-OFFICE. 
Taggart, net, $0.60. 

BOBBY IN MOVIELAND. Finn, S.J. 
net, $1.50. 

BOB O’LINK. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 

BROWNIE AND I. Aimerle. «,$i.cx 3 . 

BUNT AND BILL. Mulholland. 
net, $0.60. 

BY BRANSCOME RIVER. Taggart. 
net, $0.60. 

CAMP BY COPPER RIVER. Spald- 
ing, S.J. net, $1.50. 

CAPTAIN TED. Waggaman. «,$i.oo. 

CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. 
Spalding, S.J. net, $1.50. 

CHILDREN OF CUPA. Mannix. net, 

CHILDREN OF THE LOG CABIN. 
Delamare. net, $1.00. 

CLARE LORAINE. “ Lee.” n, $1.00. 

CLAUDE LIGHTFOOT. Finn, S.J. 
net, $1.50. 

COBRA ISLAND. Boyton, S.J. net, 
$i.iS- 

CUPA REVISITED. Mannix. net, 
$0.60. 

CUPID OF CAMPION. Finn, S.J. 
net, $1.50. 

DADDY DAN. Waggaman. net, 

^.60. 

DEAR FRIENDS. Nirdlinger. net, 
$1.00. 

DIMPLING’S SUCCESS. Mulhol- 
land. net, $0.60. 

ETHELRED PRESTON. Finn, S.J. 
net, $1.50. 

EVERY-DAY GIRL, AN. Crowley. 
net, $0.60. 

FACING DANGER. Finn, S.J. net, 
$1.50. 

FAIRY OF THE SNOWS. Finn, S.J. 
net, $1.50. 


FINDING OF TONY. Waggaman. 
net, $1.00. 

FIVE BIRDS IN A NEST. Delamare. 
net, $1.00. 

FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. By a 
Religious, net, $1.00. 

FLOWER OF THE FLOCK. Egan. 
net, $1.50. 

FOR THE WHITE ROSE. Hinxson. 
net, $0.60. 

FRED’S LITTLE DAUGHTER. 
Smith, net, $0.60. 

FREDDY CARR’S ADVENTURES. 
Garrold, S.J. net, $1.00. 

FREDDY CARR AND HIS FRIENDS. 
Garrold, S.J. net, $1.00. 

GOLDEN LILY, THE. Hinkson. net, 
$0.60. 

GREAT CAPTAIN, THE. Hinkson. 
net, $0.60. 

HALDEMAN CHILDREN, THE. 
Mannix. net, $0.60. 

HARMONY FLAT^. Whitmire, net, 
$1.00. 

HARRY DEE. Finn, S.J. net, $1.50. 

HARRY RUSSELL. Copus, S.J. net, 
$1.50. 

HEIR OF DREAMS, AN. O’Malley. 
net, $0.60. 

HELD IN THE EVERGLADES. 
Spalding, S.J. net, $1.50. 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEAR- 
ANCE. Finn, S.J. net, $1.50. 

HIS LUCKIEST YEAR. Finn, S.J. 
net, $1.50. 

HOSTAGE OF WAR, A. Bonesteel. 
net, $0.60. 

HOW THEY WORKED THEIR WAY. 
Egan. ««/, $1.00. 

IN QUEST OF ADVENTURE. Man- 
nix. net, $0.60. 

IN QUEST OF THE GOLDEN 
CHEST. Barton, net, $1.00. 

JACK. By a Religious, H.C.J. net, 
$0.60. 

JACK-O’LANTERN. Wagg.\man. 
net, $0.60. 

JACK HILDRETH ON THE NILE. 
Taggart, net, $1.00. 

JUNIORS OF ST. BEDE’S. Bryson. 
net, $1.00. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. First 
Series, net, Si.ijo. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Second 
Series. Tiet, Si.'^o. 

KLONDIKE PICNIC, A. Donnelly. 
net, $1.00. 

LEGENDS AND STORIES OF THE 
HOLY CHILD JESUS. Lutz, net, 
$1.00. 


9 


LITTLE APOSTLE ON CRUTCHES. 

Del-UIAKE. net $0.60. 

LITTLE GIRL FROM BACK EAST. 

Roberts, net, $o.Go. 

LITTLE LADY OF THE HALL. 

Rvebian. net, $0.60. 

LITTLE MARSHALLS AT THE 
LAKE. Nixon-Roulet. net, $1.00. 
LITTLE MISSY. Waggaman. net, 

LOYAL BLUE AND ROYAL SCAR- 
LET. Taggart, net, $1.50. 

LUCKY BOB, Finn, S.J. »e/,$i,so. 
MADCAP SET AT ST. ANNE’S. Bru- 

NOWE. net, $0.60. 

MAD KNIGHT, THE. Schaching. 
net, $0.60. 

MAKING OF MORTLAKE. Copus, 
S.J. Tiet, $1.50. 

MAN FROM NOWHERE. Sadlier. 
net, $1.00. 

MARKS OF THE BEAR CLAWS. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.50. 

MARY TRACY’S FORTUNE. Sad- 
lier. net, $0.60. 

MILLY AVELING. Smith. «e/, $1.00. 
MIRALDA. J0HN.SON. net, $0.60. 
MORE FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. 

By a Religious, net, $1.00. 

MOSTLY BOYS. Finn, S.J. net, $1.50. 
MYSTERIOUS DOORWAY. Sadlier. 
net, $0.60. 

MYSTERY OF HORNBY HALL. 

Sadlier. net, $1.00. 

MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY. Barton. 
net, $1.00. 

NAN NOBODY. Waggaman, net, 
$0.60. 

NED RIEDER. Wehs. net, $1.00. 
NEW SCHOLAR AT ST. ANNE’S. 

Bruno we. net, $1.00. 

OLD CHARLMONT’S SEED-BED. 
Smith, net, $0.60. 

OLD MILL ON THE WITHROSE. 

Spalding, S.J. ttet, $1.50. 

ON THE OLD CAMPING GROUND. 

Mannix. Tiet, $1.00. 

PANCHO AND PANCHITA. Man- 
nix. net, $0.60. 

PAULINE ARCHER. Sadlier. net, 

PERCY WYNN. Finn, S.J. net, %1.50. 
PERIL OF DIONYSIO. Manndc. 
net, $0.60. 

PETRONILLA. Donnelly. net, 
$1.00. 

PICKLE AND PEPPER. Dorsey. 
net, $1.50. 

PILGRIM FROM IRELAND. Car- 
not. net, $o.6a 


PLAYWATER PLOT, THE. Wagga- 
man. net, $1.00. 

POLLY DAY’S ISLAND. Roberts. 
net, $1.00. 

POVERINA. Buckenham. net, $1.00. 
QUEEN’S PAGE, THE. Hdikson. net, 

QUEEN’S PROMISE, THE. Wagga- 
man. nc/, $1.2$. 

QUEST OF MARY SELWYN. Clem- 
ENTIA. net, $1.50. 

RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. Spald- 
ing, S.J. net, $1.50. 

RECRUIT TOMMY COLLINS. 

Bonesteel. net, $0.60. 

ROMANCE OF THE SILVER SHOON. 

Bearne, S.J. net, $1.50. 

ST. CUTHBERT’S. CopuS: S.J. net, 
$1.50. 

SANDY JOE. Waggaman. net, $1.25. 
SEA-GULL’S ROCK. Sandeau. net, 

SEVEN LITTLE MARSHALLS. 

Nixon-Roulet. net, J0.60. 
SHADOWS LIFTED. Copus, S.J. 
net, $1.50. 

SHERIFF OF THE BEECH FORK. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.50. 
SHIPMATES. Waggaman. net, $1.25. 
SIGNALS FROM THE BAY TREE. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.50. 

STRONG ARM OF AVALON. Wag- 
gaman. net, $1.25. 

SUGAR CAMP AND AFTER. Spald- 
ing, S.J. net, $1.50. 

SUMMER AT WOODVBLLE. Sad- 
lier. net, $0.60. 

TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE 
MIDDLE AGES, de Capella. net, 
$1.00. 

TALISMAN, THE. Sadlier. «c/,$i.oo. 
TAMING OF POLLY. Dorsey, net, 
$1.50, 

THAT FOOTBALL GAME. Finn, S.J. 
net, $1.50. 

THAT OFFICE BOY. Finn, S.J. net, 

thrSe girls and especially 

ONE. Taggart, net, $0.60. 

TOLD IN THE TWILIGHT. Salome. 
net, $1.00. 

TOM LOSELY; BOY. Copus, S.J. 
net, $1.50. 

TOM PLAYFAIR. Finn, S.J. net, 

ToiuS LUCK-POT. Waggaman. net, 
$0.60. 

TOORALLADDY. Walsh, net, $0.60. 
TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE. 
Waggaman. net, $1.00. 


TREASURE OF NUGGET MOUN- 
TAIN. Taggart, net, $i.oo. 

TWO LITTLE GIRLS Mack, net, 
$0.60. 

UNCLE FRANK’S MARY. Clemen- 
TL\. net, $1.50. 


UPS AND DOWNS OF MARJORIE. 

Waggaman. net, $0.60. 

VIOLIN MAKER. Smith, net, $o.6q 
WINNETOU, THE APACHE 
KNIGHT. Taggart, net, $1.00. 
YOUNG COLOR GUARD. Bone- 
steel. net, $0.60. 


VII. NOVELS 


ISABEL C. CLARKE’S GREAT NOV- 
ELS. Each, net, $2.00. 

THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON. 
THE POTTER’S HOUSE. 
TRESSIDER’S SISTER. 

URSULA FINCH. 

THE ELSTONES. 

EUNICE. 

LADY TRENT’S DAUGHTER. 
CHILDREN OF EVE. 

THE DEEP HEART. 

WHOSE NAME IS LEGION. 

FINE CLAY. 

PRISONERS’ YEARS. 

THE REST HOUSE. 

ONLY ANNE. 

THE SECRET CITADEL. 

BY THE BLUE RIVER. 

ALBERTA: ADVENTURESS. L’Er- 
MiTE. net, $2.00. 

BACK TO THE WORLD. Champol. 
net, $2.00. 

BARRIER, THE. Bazin, net $1.65. 
BALLADS OF CHILDHOOD. Poems. 

Earls, S.J. net, $1.50. 

BLACK BROTHERHOOD, THE. 

Garrold, S.J. net, $2.00. 

BOND AND FREE. Connor, net, 
$1.00. 

‘‘Birr THY LOVE AND THY 
GRACE.” Finn, S.J. net, $1.50. 
BY THE BLUE RIVER. Clarke. 
net, $2.00. 

CARROLL DARE. Wagg.\man. net, 

CIRCUS-RIDER’S DAUGHTER. 

Brackel. net, $1.25. 

CHILDREN OF EVE. Clarke, net, 
$2.00. 

CONNOR D’ARCY’S STRUGGLES. 

Bertholds. net, $1.25. 

CORINNE’S VOW. Waggaman. net, 
$1.25. 

DAUGHTER OF KINGS, A. Hink- 
SON. net, $2.00. 

DEEP HEART, THE. Clarke, net, 
$2.00. 

DENYS THE DREAMER. Hinkson. 
net, $2.00. 


DION AND THE SIBYLS. Keon. 

n ^, $1.25. • 

ELDER MISS AINSBOROUGH, THE 
Taggart, net, $1.25. 

ELSTONES, THE. Clarke, net, 
$2.00. 

EUNICE. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
FABIOLA. Wiseman, net, $1.00. 
FABIOLA’S SISTERS. Clarke, net, 
$ 1 . 25 . 

FATAL BEACON, THE. Brackel. 
net, $1.25. 

FAUSTULA. Ayscough. net, $2.00. 
FINE CLAY. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
FLAME OF THE FOREST. Bishop. 
net, $2.00. 

FORGIVE AND FORGET. Lingen. 
net, $1.2$. 

GRAPES OF THORNS. Waggaman. 
Ttet, $1.25. 

HEART OF A MAN. Maher, net, 
$2.00. 

HEARTS OF GOLD. Edhor. n, $1.25. 
HEIRESS OF CRONENSTEIN. 

Hahn-Hahn. net, $1.00. 

HER BLIND TOLLY. Holt, net, 
$1.25. 

HER FATHER’S DAUGHTER. Hink- 
son. net, $2.00. 

HER FATHER’S SHARE. Power. 
net, $1.25. 

HER JOURNEY’S END. Cooke. 
net, $1.25. 

IDOLS; or THE SECRET OF THE 
RUE CHAUSSE D’ANTIN. de 
Navery. net, $1.25. 

IN GOD’S GOOD TIME. Ross, net, 
$1.00. 

IN SPITE OF ALL. Staniforth, net, 

IN ^ THE DAYS OF KING HAL. 

Taggart, net, $1.25. 

IVY HEDGE, THE. Egan, net 
$2.00. 

KIND HEARTS AND CORONETS. 

Harrison, net, $1.25. 

LADY TRENT’S DAUGHTER. 

Clarke, net, $2.00. 

LIGHT OF HIS COUNTENANCE. 
Hart, net, $1,00. 


1/ 


LIGHT ON THE LAGOON, THE 
Clarke, net, $2.00. 

“LIKE UNTO A MERCHANT.” 
Gray, net, $2.00. 

LITTLE CARDINAL. Parr. n,$i.6s. 

LOVE OF BROTHERS. Hinkson. net, 
$2.00. 

MARCELLA GRACE. Mulhollakd. 
net, $1.25. 

MARIE OF THE HOUSE D’ANTERS. 
EIarls, S.J. net, $2.00. 

MELCHIOR OF BOSTON. Earls, 
S.J. net, $1.25. 

MIGHTY FRIEND, THE. L’Ermite. 
net, $2.00. 

MIRROR OF SHALOTT. Benson. 
net, $2.00. 

MISS ERIN. Francis, net, $1.25. 

MR. BILLY BUTTONS. Lecky. net, 
$1.65. 

MONK’S PARDON, THE. de Nav- 
ery. net, $1.25. 

MY LADY BEATRICE. Cooke, net, 
$1.00. 

NOT A JUDGMENT. Keon. net, 
$1.65. 

ONLY ANNE. Clarke, net, $2.00. 

OTHER MISS LISLE. Martin, net, 
$1.00. 

OUT OF BONDAGE. Holt, net, 
$1.25. 

OUTLAW OF CAMARGUE. deLa- 
mothe. net, $1.25. 

PASSING SHADOWS. Yorke. net, 
$1.65. 

PERE MONNIER’S WARD. Lecky. 
net, $1.65. 

POTTER’S HOUSE, THE. Clarke. 
net, $2.00. 

PRISONERS’ YEARS. Clarke, net, 
$2.00. 

PRODIGAL’S DAUGHTER, THE, 
AND OTHER STORIES. Bugg. 
net, $1.50. 

PROPHET’S WIFE. Browne, net, 

RED^ INN OF ST. LYPHAR. Sad- 
LiER. net, $1.25. 

REST HOUSE, THE. Clarke, net, 
$2.00. 

ROSE OF THE WORLD. Martin. 
net, $1.25. 

ROUND TABLE OF AMERICAN 
CATHOLIC NOVELISTS. fM:<,$i.25. 

ROUND TABLE OF FRENCH CATH- 
OLIC NOVELISTS, net, $1.25. 

ROUND TABLE OF GERMAN 
CATHOLIC NOVELISTS. net, 

ROUND TABLE OF IRISH AND 


ENGLISH CATHOLIC NOVEL- 
ISTS. net, $1.25. 

RUBY CROSS, THE. Wallace, net, 

RULER OF THE KINGDOM. Keon. 
net, $1.65. 

SECRET CITADEL, THE. Clarke. 
net, $2.00. 

SECRET OF THE GREEN VASE. 
Cooke, net, $1.00. 

SHADOW OF EVERSLEIGH. Lans- 

DOWNE. net, $1.00. 

SHIELD OF SILENCE. Henry-Roe- 
FIN. net, $2.00. 

SO AS BY FIRE. Connor, net, $1.25. 

SON OF SIRO, THE. Copus, S.J. 
net, $2.00. 

STORY OF CECILIA, THE. Hinkson. 
net, $1.65. 

STUORE. Earls, S.J. ««/, $1.50. 

TEMPEST OF THE HEART. Gray. 
net, $1.25. 

TEST OF COURAGE. Ross. net,%i.oo. 

THAT MAN’S DAUGHTER. Ross. 
net, $1.2$. 

THEIR CHOICE. Skinner, net, $1.00. 

THROUGH THE DESERT. Sien- 
KiEwicz. net, $2.00. 

TIDEWAY, THE. Ayscough. «,$ 2 .oo. 

TRESSIDER’S SISTER. Clarke. 
net, $2.00. 

TRUE STORY OF MASTER 
GERARD. Sadlier. net, $1.65. 

TURN OF THE TIDE, THE. Gray. 
net, $1.2$. 

UNBIDDEN GUEST, THE. Cooke. 
net, $1.00. 

UNDER THE CEDARS AND THE 
STARS. Canon Sheehan, net, $2.00. 

UNRAVELLING OF A TANGLE, 
THE. Taggart, net, $1.25. 

UP IN ARDMUIRLAND. Barrett, 
O. S. B. $1.65. 

URSULA FINCH. Clarke, net, %2.00. 

VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY, 
THE. Egan, net, $1.65. 

WARGRAVE TRUST, THE. Reid. 
net, $1.65. 

WAR MOTHERS. Poems. Garesche', 
S.J. net, $0.60. 

WAY THAT LED BEYOND, THE. 
Harrison, net, $1.2 1>. 

WEDDING BELLS OF GLENDA- 
LOUGH, THE. Earls, S.J. »,$2.oo. 

WHEN LOVE IS STRONG. Keon. 
net, $1.65. 

WHOSE name IS LEGION. Clarke. 
net, $2.00. 

WOMAN OF FORTUNE, A. Reid. 
net, $1.65. 


12 


/ 


I 







* oV <?' 

•'0. <• •< 

’- cP^ "J ” . % 



ju « » ^ 

O 

■y_ V o 



^ - 0^ -> ' ' ■ O' 

C^ tt ^ ^ -v 


A ' ^ 

A ' <A SEw//^^ 

. ', ■’i o' 



^ ,.0 c 

v' 5}-^*0/- > ,0' ''■' ll''>v 

AWM//^ o 



r L 


'V 


^ 0 ^ X 


.A' ",’*«R^ * 

, ^ 0 N c , •" '' A' ,l I . , ' 

-^-. -O C ^ vv i. ^ ^ C>-. 

^ ( ) 1^ ,-jr-''CNf' ^ ^ ' O yv^ “i O 

^ATv.^ a\ 

^ -n*. ' 

'\\J^E,-^ qO 

'»"•», -> " ' ,0^ s'” %■ 



y C‘ Vj 


t * 0 



"."'S' 

.O"^' c » ‘ .X. , 

^ d 0 “ ^ 'f' .’^ -X 



o 0^ 


.'I ^ 

^ •'rr> • h. ^0-' 




’ ’ " ^ V s^ ^ ^ 0 / ^ 



' ^ .XV 





A'^- 




-i 





j . c , ;-.^; ' .'■• ' ' \* ' »'• ‘ , 0 ' • * ’ ' 





),o°^ 




r% 



,y V 

o 0^ 


o'* s' 
y X 


^ <1- 
<v^ ^ 


' V. . 0 ^ ^ r-, <l 



\0°x. 


^ a r^ 

r. 

8 1^ r\^ S ^ ^ 

.O^ S^ 

'> jr^SMn^ <j <?' 




r '% \^€ 


•Y? 

" ^ .-O' 

///^ ^ 

':k» : '^o o' .° 


- " »ra " -</' 


0 N o ^ 


4 i( 


v\ 


0 9 V 


\0 



''1 o 


N 


j 5 





V 


V I 8 




A < 


\0q> 

\ V<' . ^ 



.>«• V 

o 0 


> = .si. 






• • • • 

* *1 * • 

• * • ' 

( i ' « 

• 

* I « 

I * I 

K , k 

• ■ ;■ 

# * i 

I I r 

I » 

A t .« t 

I I 

4. ^ t ^ 

\ > I 

* . 4 ^ * 


F I 

I t 
* * • ' 

- I ‘ 

» « • 

4 

I I * 


. * > 


9 9 

• I 
* ' • • 


1 ^ * i I I* I I*, y* ' i t \ ' » » % « t*: 4 I 4*^ I • ^ 4 % * 

4 *•»;•. V I •.• 1* ■ \ : f ^ \ > 4 % |t|*| 4 '* % \ 0 

i \ J ^ • I i V »*4 ^ ^ * A I's * »•>.'' *1.4 

*‘**♦ '•1*1^. 7 r*4-* IV9*9 ^«4*l % ' \ 4 I 4*' 4 ',4 •' * / ^'1 i \ . > » 

1.4 t * 4 r i 4 I ' , T ^ I * .5 4 I 4 4 ^ . . I . 4 > I 4 ♦ 4 4 I 4 M c I . 1 / ^ ' * * • 

4 4 1 44*'|v4*, I I** '. - iri I ,*4'4*»*4'* * i^4‘i*4 * 4'ii I • ] 

« I k k i » 1*1 4.4 1*^ « 4-4* 4*. *1 i J .«* 

If »|II 4 414 » 4 f** t I'J I J f > 14 ) i * ^ I I4*'k I » 4 '•!. 

i -i 4*/.4 ll44.t 4 I I 4 > > 0 * \ f i $ 4'A ; 4 f’4** 

4 • *' % \ ./*» 4* 1^9 * I A*9i\**4^V# !• 

'•♦'•I* I* 4 4.1 4**. I 4.1 I I I / 4 :^. 

^4 I I . I 4 t 4*1/ 4 if\ 4 I I I I ^ ^ ^ ^ ‘ ^ ' 

«•• • « 4 4«4<|(« !’• t I I A I* 4 I \ i k I % k i I * k ' * '• * 

4 4.44 I I » I ^ I * • . » . I ' I 4 \ * I 1 ^ 4 • .' 4 > ■ I f 4 f . ; I f * • > I 4 * 

4 i * • t M » * i. ' . . I I I I I I I # I A r • I I <. 4 »».*•• I * < • F H » ' . 

« I « I 4 . A I | A f.4 I * t 4 f 

- • • # ^ I •* I ' 4 f* . r * 4 ' > • I 4 i * i I ♦ ^ I * I -• I 4 4 < • » -I I • I 

I I I I » 4 1 • » f s * • I • • i « • * • • I V • - / i / I * I i *1 I f » c .4 4 4 I 

4 .... 4 4 4 i • t ■ t • • ‘ • 44 ^.‘J f*! I • / 1 y I i / 

1*1 I 4 I 4 4 ► ^ I • > f*4 I** I'l f‘ir4/i/4*.*'l» .k.*-4*'4 I 

^#*4^*-. .; - I • ^ •».»! ,»*i*4il'F^;i4 >' 4^'A l*‘-i'4*. 4*1 » l 

.4 I **' 4 4 > <1*4 * l 1^1 I ' I • I 4 I 

4*1*1 4i4^>4 ^ |r4r<r»<4*4»’«(| | I A 4 I > » > t f ^ 

rj**ii* 4 ‘i». I'l^i •* < ^ 4 4 I • l" 4 I I J / 

I '4*1 I k 4 { y ' H %• > l-l-l (4 1 A /-i l/4 » I 4 4’4 

*•» •;•♦•. 4 •■' • 1 * •1*1 • l i 4 4 **4 » f 4 •“ 


I . I > 

• % 

I i 

* I • 
,• » : f 

' \ > 

I I 

• • • > 


• 4 I 

* 4 

4 I 

. ; * .' . 

« « I • 

9 ' 

* I 


k f 

» . % 
I > 

\ t 

> • 

I • 


9 m 

V »' > 

« 4 

. * * ' 

• 1 

4 

* • 4 

4 4 

4 


’ 

\ ' if 

» 


LIBRARY OF CX)NGRESS 



* . • I 4 I I I 

- . . 4 : « I •. 1 A , • I 

« I ' 4 I I 4*4 

I 4 ) 4 I ' » 

*. I 4 4 ' » • • 

4 > *• - 4 4 ? • 

• \ ' % \ • # « ' 4 

t • I I V 4 11 « . 

i • I I ‘ C I • t < I 

--I* Y 

I . f I III 
< 1 I. 4 ) » I 

% » I 9 » W I > 

4 1*1 . « « t . 4 . 

4 I * ^ r I % 

• I 1 • I t . > 1 

4 ' « 9 « I I* I 


I 4 \ 4 r A 1*1.1 k f * (4 1 A /-i l/4 » l | l’l 

^• 1*1 • l i I \ t • k ^ k i ^ y » f I •“ - ' 

1'.| (^« l*« t I l<< > I I' 

. * • . , , I • • ' » * .* A i 4 . 9 9 . I / t . t 4 • • % I r» « ^ ‘ ^ \ ' 

» » 4* I |*f.r ft I I I * 1<l 

1'l ft'*' I I • 1., * V 

I ft / . I * I • ; I ft > ♦ « 4 . * •• I * ft ^ I • I r' ■ % 

f I ft^l•'# ft ft.^. V*4:. 

. I 1 ' • ‘ • ft 'Ll ' ft ft ^ ft' # ' ft 4 ft I ' 1 > ft • ft I 

ft.* Ill 1*1 ftfft ft I ft i.| ^ i'l i I* 

\ w ft , ft * ft ^ • 4 • 1*1^* ft* 4 ^ ' ft I I ft » I I ^ 

ft ft f f i ft I. I ft I l > I ft 

• ^ ft . I / 9 • • - ♦ . I • « ' 4 • • ft ft • • •• I ft 4 I ft ft •ft 

/ « • ••! ft ft * I ft ft ft ' ft % ft‘l ft.*.l«r.l5 

» ft ft 4 % ft » ' I ft I • ft I ft I • > T * ft A ' . ; • •• T I .4 V 

• A • ' i t > ft' t • r ' k 1 I ft‘*; «* > 

»'i J ft.ft ft # * » 1 '^ ^ 

ft I I ; ^ ft »• » • ‘A I * 1 ' « • 1 ft \ t 1 t I ft . I I ^ \ I ► 4 1. I * 1 

ft 9 I 9 ft I .\ 4 ft ft • > ' ft I . ft • 9 . ft . • • 9 • * . I . • . » • 

% » «* > I »1 I-. |-kVf;*rft l*i jiftftV ft 

4 4 *_!• l-ft ft ' I* 


D0024afiTSSS 


* . * 


I ♦ • 4 

f . I 

V » •■. ‘ 

♦ t 

t 9*4' 

ft • ' ft 

• . ^ * 

• • .• ft 

I • • 

• J r 4 ft 

• » . I ' 

ft I 


I 4 

r I f 

I • 4 

» ’» V I 

f 4 * 

’,r,j 

4 I f 
• • 4 ' 

* # < 


W 'ft ^ k • * 

* * ft • • 4 ' 

ftft I ft 

f f Ik 

F 4 > . 

I • 1 < . • 

I * ft ft 

♦ ' i .' * I • 

/ • . t ft 

I . I ^ 4 • 

' 4 • ft *. 1*1 


« ' I • 9 • ft . I 

.•'* .• •« 4 


* • » t <* » 

I ft I ' ft ' 
' • ft 9 ' I 




» , 4- \i 

f . 1 


. • > I * ' .» 

f > •; ; , V • 

. . • I .' . I ■ , > 

4 . I '^ ft ' f 

• 1*9 • I I 

* • » • • ft ft 4 

' J ft • t \ k 

ft ft I I • ’ i 

" » i ft 4 ft » I r 

I I'ft'ftir:/, 

A i ft I '• ? * ft • ft * 

r * 4 V I * ♦ J ^ 

• ft F < I ' t • 

' ft ^ I I ft 9 » f ' ft 

t h I ft * I I 

t t • '. ft . - ♦ 

* f » I r • • 




At- 4 F 4 

1 t 4 

* * t / f 

% i ^ . 

. ‘n/', • 

, / 4 *• . ’ 


1 * t « I 

' f . I#. 

% 4 • 

« * 1 9 


4 4 


A f t 

ft 4 

♦ A 4 

' ' I » I ft 


t I - r% 

I A * . 




# » A i 1 

19 4 # 1 1 

I I * k\ 


♦ - ^ • 

I I 

■' ' • • 


- f • 

» , I 

ft I 


, » . • 


I'l » 4 Aif|4‘?*e‘1i 9 A.# / I *•* I V 4 P ^ t ■ ^ • 4 ^ ^ # 1 r.r 

4-^ I J1»v *ri ». ft * 944. 4 » * « % I > 9 A I « # *^»«94^l.| • / i • ^ P ‘ i ' i f , { ^ * .* 

F *• • * ! b*4vlft# «!**/ . F« I /*.« •* Fft* 9 t l'*9 l f ft I'* «» .• • r I 4**J 

r ' t r J 1 '^ ft*! 4 >• ••*•* 4*.4» \ |4| 

♦ • ' I 'ft^l•ft^>■f'ft I* I 9^ft* 4.1 5. F r» 9*i • • •'I ' « » i-ft-ii. 9 1 ♦ A n ' t 4 • i ^ r I lit 

1 k > 9 ^ t hl ft 9 4 I I I f I 1 I ft I !-«*•« • 14 ft * ft 1919 ..» 9 k •/ 

f I I .*1 1 t* '. •»•" -♦ .•lfw,9«Airkr. 4* ft*f‘ t i*1*9 4 * 4t» J t I 1:9 I I 9 ft 1 # k /- ^ 1^4 

I 'll v 4 f 91 4* 4 . 4 } f | l I * I f !*• > ' ' $ ' • I* III* r4/9*9fj/*r|/./Fi|.| I J. | • 9^9 1 ft 

!•» 4 I ♦ I k |ftl 4 l I 4 |*» r/4*4 4 • 1-4 4.f< 9.i , P i f 1* .k *1 |ft| \ : ■' i * 1 4 *^1 • f $ 9^4 

-»ij'T *4 At ‘ *‘*9* ^ « **t-* 4 • 1 , J'l ^ »•> ' kAl | 4 ^ 4 9 I t*9’l I 4 I A. 

9 f 4- 9 >•* ft *1 • 9'^4 *J'| .* r'1iJ* F^k • ft f 4 4 ‘ 'I >ftl ftft|.ft*l4l* i ft t |/;i 

?rft“ 4ftft/*’l*ft | ••»' ♦' 4 1 f ft f'l I J*i ' ^ >1? i’* * ^‘>1 f.l 1. \*. r.Al 91 M* 

t * Irl . C J I f ^ P • 4 l *. i 9 1*. »*! ^ i I 1^. »•«• 

I ft ft ft " : *: t A 1 • r»i **.'1 1 : 1 *^ >•* i ik.^i 1*4 »-**%Vk« 

I •'( p- 41 > I 4 ) 9 ft 4 »••*. ffl*. tf' * ft 1*1^1 I • . 'i *’* 1 >'♦ I ft t J t I’k- 

• • ft f • I J ' > I I I • • « I • * % ^ 9 . A 9 k, I • 1 / • 1 « ' • » ; . . J f J* 9‘ ‘ ^ 4 . 9 4 • t 9 ' 9 , i • | / . , / , T ^ . 

•* t f • k k ft ft'J J 4 I ft** 4 .'i-» *|v»-./i/k*9X. ^ ft. 9-1 , ’»•'*. r*ft ft ft* ft' f i*'! ft ! 9'*9 \ ft'lft 

• ' ft'ft ' *•./•• «*'» 9 I'r** I*ft»ft^*. • r /i** ' i-k * • /• * |ftk»#«‘Fl^^^r ^ 9 I it I t t f 

I * I. I .* 3 • * • 0 • ** I'l^l >‘9*l>9 >'> I t ft • l', I I |‘| f^4<%* 

9 • 1 f ►••J / . P . t •. . f ^ f , * f t ft • t •. **1 9«1i;^**f^ft «?r f f . $ f t ' f P ft ft I. k* | 

' t f 4 ft *. • I ft' • ft 1 ' I ' • I . * ft A ♦ ft . * ft / ft I t f 1 9 1 4 p 9 \ ft » I t 4 * I * » I • • ft ft • f t ft •- V 1 ^ k • ft 1 k 

t >k •,* ,«».• ft 1 ft'ft 4*9 4 9* I i . rl • k* * k 1 * 9 9** 9 > ft ft K I'ftf ^'*9*/ 

f » I • ft ft »' y^f lift' ft • \ 3 • • * 4 ' f « ' I * * • • X ft ft / ft ft *' » • 9 k • * J / I ^ I 1* I ft * J ^ * 9 • * J ‘ 9 * ? 9 

1*1 l ,*| 1 \ t f t * \ ft i I'i • »»t • • I 'ft'9 ft:ft'k'1*ft 1 ft-k 4 

• » ft • 9 • ft .- ' t I 1 • k r , ♦ ft •* F \ ^ i ' ‘ t > • 1 . * f r t ^ • .4 ft « k t • ' -A I. • . , . • . ' ft • I -.^1*1 19 ft * ft 4 . . i * i 

• * * * * I / / t I * » • .1 9 * • t I 9 1 ' . I » ) 9 r . ^ t , ft I ft 1 V I • ft ’ I ' f • ft • f * 1 • 1*9 ' I s . - / , » f ^ ^ t, 

ft ♦ * I • I ft 9 • , J I I ’ I 9 < , • I ' • ' , f » 1 ft I « 1 I y > I i ‘ . 1 I t • I • 4 A . * f r % • 1^4 I 9 1 It 

!'• f ft 9 I I ► I 'ti k i*|.9.. I 1 .-% I 14 * f 9 ft 9. 4ft.* •|.•.•. ,ft*'':i«ftft 

r ' ft t t 9 ft • I 1 • I I *'9 9 9 I > ' ^ I 9 ' f ! I'l * ft f'‘ * 9 * J ^k'ft'k 4 • } -tl.t 

t - •* 'tN f f • ,.J . r •i**9 ft. / * ftlk. '.i F I i*|'t.**» • t*ft ft ••if *1 9 r Pit i 

'.1 t * I I ft' I ft t.ift^ft^ftft. I'k'.-i ft • ft »*|fti.» 9 9 4 ft ’•' f • k i r p ' I 't. 

i/f .'••ft *• » 9-t * • i'l ' • ^ •••‘I / i 1,! '“* 9«t »‘9 9 « t l 9 f ^ , *‘l ft*it 

9 . 9 ft 4 ' • • 9 ft 4 • 9 ; I * ft * 1 '• f • I - 1 ^ f ^ •. t ^ * A 1 < 1 • J 4-9 ' ^ ' . * » * » ’ - : • I ft F * 1 ft • I I 4 .*1,9 * - 1 i C • 

I f9 1 ft I'k • ' k- c. -I'l*. *4 I* ^•1^1* •' 1*1. ir* p. f*^ '•% l’ ft-^t*J f.lk I'tf* * f' lJl 

V * .• tt. • 4 *•*! ft |''»t ftftk** 9 t J f f ft^> f s ' ^ \*» k >'! 4 */**'*r* f ^^l »• 

ft •?? 4 f > T i | k Ji‘'i 4»9 1 1 4. k :-l ft » I*! ! 'l*'' .‘'♦/'•iif-9M-|*I ' • 1 •.!* 

■ P *'* l ; ! ^1 1 ..••4 9 I F k^iftl-A f f • 1*. 5 . ft l'! I,1*9rt'k 9*1*1 * 4' * 4 (•- 

.• *♦. I'l'l r 9 I . ’‘t/|kj • * .*> 9 9 I > -F I I I I I »*• k I • ■ X 9 * 9 

9 I •*•#!’ *9 9 4 9 f • 4 9 4 ft. ♦ I '*1.9 • '•! jft »> 4'* i 9 l A • f I ‘ » r i % 

• I ' ft i t •' 9 9 ^ f . r 9 >1 i 1 I # • f 9 t k f t ' • 9 4 I . , • 4 *^ , ♦ 9 ' > * • ft 4 .J , / , f ^ / f t • ' • • 

1 . 4 I t • 9 9 *'^' 4 f 4 9T|*^ l«.( • ! * , •/• ft,* 9 • i $ i't # « At* , ^ i 

i . ft • ' « » . I . f 1 • • 9 , ' 1 . F « I , I Ik A k 9*1 I / r • • i* # i t ft 4 ft .• I - t : ft ' . • 9 • 9 ; f • 1 ; .• i ft • f » It* 

i t *• ' M * ft / . I " 1 » • 4 I f • f r • ^ ^ ' ' . ' » k ✓ I / ^ iT I t - / J . , . 4 •' ft * / . • k . , ^ 4 ; ■ . tv. . i • * J 


9 9 

♦ I 


1 t 

I « ft 

1 

ft r. ! 


9 i 

1 ft 

* /• 


? ) I 

• • I ’ 

, ^ k • t 


!• ' I . » • • 1 ' 9 * 

ft ' > ' 9 % f r 

* I . ft 1 • 1 ft • ft k ' 

* 5 ♦ • 4 I > 

•*» 1 »|f*. 4 


1 9 

I » 1 


ft ft' 
ft • 4 


' I ’'f .' f ’ . » * • ' 

••",».■ 'I ^ ft . I 

4 0 ' • * • * • t • i 9 4 » i k k 

4 I ft 4 .ft , , , . ^ ^ . A , J 

1*^1*4^f', ft k j % t I 

I ft . ' *4 . t • ' ^ i 

> • • I 4 1 ' f , » . ' 1 / \ ^ I 

I « ft ; k * 1 . I ' * _ • 

ft'k**f. •^' 1 

• • • K ' |f>'ft* 

• t • ' 9 ‘ I ■ * • 4 } • 

f« ft' k f> • p , % ‘ • 


*',■>>. 


9 ' t T 9 

} ,)' ’■ ^ 

. f . f . > . ; 

• f •• f ; ' ft - 

I f 9 1 

•ft '-It* 

' / • 


I 5 • > ‘ f I • : • 

•'ir» 

- 9 ' ‘ ' * ♦ r 4 • 

' 9 ' J t J P F 5 

I-.*.'/ ft *9-, .If I 


I 

♦ 

/ • 

* / • 

• f * 

. ^ , 


ft • •'ll . i . • 

I ft ft • . 4 * , 

J • I F • 1 k 

f 9 ' i I 9 

. 1 1 9 . • f • 


;•* 

. / 4 

‘ • k ft 

-ft'.', . 


.« . * 


4 * ft * ft 

I 


• . r » ' » ' 

t • r ' 

• .* ft J ' 

9 • • • 

• * * • m .» 


I 9 • • 

. T 4 • ' • 

F ft 

' J * ' 

• * / ' t 


ft • It 

fv ■: 

t I 
^ 9 9 

* t • 
111 
k 1 ft 


J 9 • 9 ’ > I 

k'ft ••1*1* If I » 

ft * f • I -ft . 1 , ‘ 

ft . • ^ I 9 • 

• ft • - / ; - 1 • ^ 


r f 
. -* ; .? 




» - I 

. t > . 

ft • I . 

> * > 

I ft ^ 4 


f - 

• 9 .' 

^ r/. 


>■ .» 

• I '. 

I ^ - 


/ *. ' 


,* : > 


I / 

t 9 '• 


J * • • J 

9 f r ,' ♦ I / 


k * ^ f 4“ • - * #f»^k' l^l--^. • > k 

t " 1 * ft > I .*' » *1 ' I 1 1 ft 

• • ' I . ft k 1 •' 4 , • I H • ' I t 

J f •♦li'.'ft f*- • I 

*• ftk ft^' ft * 4^4. t •’' 

» ^ 1 " 9 f • / ’ ^ • r ‘ V k . I . -I • ; . 4 • , 

•.9.1 f t ' % * t . 9 9 1 I f • 4 

ft f ft ft t ) ' i ^ A . t ft * 

' .* • I f # • f 4 - t ^ f - • • • F • • ^ 

1 9 ' i F f ftfft«ft '••.t ft 

\ ' \ . ft ' . f . ^ I • » # . -• 


k F ^ 
ft t 

k • ft - 

• . 

* ft ' 

k •• 

• k 


9 9 • t 9 9 

#*•*!*•• 

I ^ k ? * ' I %' • 

^ 9 4 • t 4 - \ ' 
I ' J * ft * ' 4 

I • *'•*'! 1 

I 5 1 • I > 1 - 


•'ft/ . ^ * 


t I f • I 

. / > • • 

• 1 • « • ft ' I 

, » • A t ’ I 


.•4 4 

F f 
k ft 

» . ’ 


’ I '• t • 

ft ft • ' * 

» • • * • 

• F • 

r ' t • • 

I t • i • 

1 9 1^1 

* I r *4 1 / 

.' J . J 

t ft • * t . 

I • ft • • ft 

I'l"'? 9 ' 

f If'# 

I k t 


• . k • I . ft ' • * ft 1 

. I k I ••'r- * 

' 9 ' ft ' I ^ ft • I ' 1 - 

• . ; • 4t-. 

ft • . • » • . 9 *, • •• 

ft - ft 9 <’4 14.9+4* 

• I . k • • » 1 1 • 1 # 

1 9 • 1 . 4 ' 1 * r • ft. 

’F*1‘#'f .ft 4.kf4 
*i<t»9(^»» lF*k-i I 


' I 

•I • 4 F 

f ' ft 

4 * V k r • 


F .• f ' k 4. 

ft F # 

k ft • ft k 

• ' . / ft 


,4 

* 1 • r 

• ft* I ^ 


♦ • • 


* •• • : 1 « 1 I 

» * , * - • 

’WV 

..I t . :\:P 

A J ft ♦ 

^ * ' > ' 9 / I . 

• , 1 I I ' 

» ' I ' i I . 

k I ' ■ X 9 * 9 

> * A ' 1 / 

‘ » r ^ 4 

• 9 I 4 

• J *4 k 

' / . .‘ vi : 

r'. 

• . ' . , i r‘-, 

. ' 'ft ft ^ 1 4 

k • ft • ^ I 

^ * . • -t 4 , 

1 • . r ^ * 

V I* 9 - 1 *. 1 
ft ' ft • ♦ t a ft 
»'•••«# 

• 3 * 

t • * ' ' • b 

* « - 4/ W 

4 * .' * « ' 

* I ' ' • 

' • •' 

# ’ • ^ ' C A 

* ' ' I f « 

k k . I 4 * 

/ > 4 - 9 ' 

ft ' ( • * • ft 9 

• i • ft • A 

1*9 1 f t f 

• • 4 •' f^kd 

I t F • • f i 9. 

I 9 f 1 A 

• » » r • • . r % 

J t ! t ft 

• ^ J • 4 / . ^ I 

t 4 r 1 F 

f “ 4 y » ^ ' 

• • I • k 

. • ' * <1 ' . 

I f • k ft •. 

4 ft I I ft t 

*. • .• . ; f *, 


‘ • . 1 -. 
• * .-- 

* “ t 
I '* F - 

A F •• 

> 4 

. • » ft# 

• k • • 

• * 1 H 

" J 


1 

. ft I -* 

' 4 ' 


F 

ft - Ik 


4 ' F I |k t k ^ f • ' 9 

14 * Ifft# ft l*9'l .-f'‘j •• ft- f 1*1* 4 

J I*# ft J'.^l k?9*^;^* i- 

f^k. f-i4i . t .. 9 , r I 4 

ft • 4 # ft ■ I • • • . ' ; » f , 0 ^ , 

-If I t _ 9 f ft I • ft • 1 ' f I I • 


* • ' I - 


I I'll 

• I • I f . £ • 

I ft ft • F 

• * k- • t 

- « « ft « 


* ft ' I 

r 1 • 

4 / 1 


■ ;••.-? 


